


Now you wanna play me

by baeconandeggs, lawlipoppie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Enemies, Enemies to Partners to Lovers, Hate, M/M, idiots to lovers, not-happening-today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 00:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeconandeggs/pseuds/baeconandeggs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawlipoppie/pseuds/lawlipoppie
Summary: Person A and Person B hate each other (or so it seems!). They are always getting into petty arguments with each other, which is a constant source of annoyance for their mutual friends. However, lately, they’ve been noticing weird little things about each other. Like Person A looks especially gorgeous when the sunlight hits them like that, or Person B has such an adorable laugh. What is going on?





	Now you wanna play me

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** BAE293  
>  **Disclaimer: baeconandeggs/the mods is/are not the author/s of this story. Authors will be credited and tagged after reveals.** The celebrities' names/images are merely borrowed and do not represent who the celebrities are in real life. No offense is intended towards them, their families or friends. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this fictional work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
>   
> 
> **Author's Note:** "Hi, hi hello hi, welcome to my piece of crap :D
> 
> Baek is kind of an ass in this fic. Actually, everyone is kind of an ass. If you listen closely, this fic is nothing but buttcheeks clapping.
> 
> Thank you bro and r/rareinsults, this fic wouldn’t have been possible without you. 
> 
> Disclaimer time :D  
> 1\. I am aware that the conflict this is centered around is of a gravity that shouldn’t be lightened, and though my depiction of it is mellowed out a lot, it is not illustrative of my personal stance on it.  
> 2\. I love kokobop doncia kokothink otherkokowise okay  
> 3\. This is not taking place in our time yall! But in like 1920/1940 smth  
> 4\. Enjoy :D
> 
> "

  
  
  
  


“Is that all, Park, do you think that fucker’s gonna buy it?” Baekhyun spits, throttling him with his collar. “A prissy little virgin could do better.” He takes quick steps backward, tugging Park with him. He needs to get away from the thick of the crowd while keeping his face hidden. Park smells like curdled cockroach ejaculate. Baekhyun’s nose wrinkles.

Park follows, one of his hands twisting Baekhyun’s behind his back. “Or are you a prissy little virgin?” Baekhyun taunts. One move, and he can headbutt Park right in the chin. He has too many teeth anyway. Now if he could also free his arm.

Parks eyes burn. “Should I break the bar with you, Byun?” he asks, pushing Baekhyun straight into it. Bad idea, for it hits his arm on the ledge, and Baekhyun escapes his hold, and now uses both hands to yank him away by his collar. He just needs space to knee him in the stomach, and snatch the envelope from his jacket.

“Turns out, you couldn’t even do that,” he speaks between his teeth. It’s dark as they enter the corridor now. Chanyeol’s arms are wrapped around Baekhyun, tight, their bodies flush, so Baekhyun can’t make any broad movements.

“Should I try again?” Park asks, his rancid breath pouring over Baekhyun’s face. “And take your little cock out too while I’m at it?”

“Should you now, Park. Maybe your mouth can feel how big it is? Surely it needs a plug so it stops spewing the sort of nonsense it keeps spewing. Don’t you just want some cock.”

“You’re the one with parted legs right now byreon, aren’t you. Already. You’re used to parting your legs immediately aren’t you.”

Fighting over the envelope. Taking it out of his pocket. Are you good for  _ anything _ , you squinty-eyed micro dick?

He hits the wall. Then Park does. “Tiny stubby bitch. Are you trying to steal from me?”

“It wasn’t yours to begin with, you sentient anus,” Baekhyun sing songs.

“Of course you have a potty mouth, you only eat shit,” Park croaks. He laughs. A chain of rachitic farts.

“Yet your mouth is the dirty one,” Baekhyun remarks, keening him in the stomach. His lips are red, artificially, maroon, burgundy. A lipstick. Horrible nuance, but what could be expected from Park’s taste.

“It got me what I needed,” Park replies, escaping again. He smashes Baekhyun against the wall. He sees stars, and behind them, the disfigured features of Park’s face. “Whereas you got  _ nothing _ ,” he whispers, finger drilling into Baekhyun’s shoulder, tone a scrape.

Baekhyun recoils. He’s blocked. He hits. “Indeed, I have nothing,” Baekhyun reiterates, teeth and hiss, as he realizes that Park’s legs are parted to insulate his. But not very tightly. He fights some more. Then he knees park in the nuts. Hard. Nutcracker who. He falls. He knows it’s the bad move, but nothing is ever fair with him. “Sorry for your pussy,” Baekhyun titters, taking the envelope, putting it in the pocket of his breastbone and running the fuck out.

Baekhyun ambles out. He’s hot. Like wasabi. Because of Park. But he got it. He has it. This will sell him thousand units. At least.

It’s only nine, but the moon is already plump and high. Baekhyun runs towards the office, and right into the studio.

He photographs it the envelope with the bribe from a businessman towards a police officer to oversee his fault in a fight that ended with a cracked head. And he has it. 

“Was Park there?” Kyungsoo asks, slowly stepping into the studio, nursing his vase of tea. He yawns. Again. And again. He’s a blackhole of sleeplessness.

“Isn’t he everywhere,” Baekhyun rumbles. He makes a face at the letter inside.  _ For blind eyes, _ it says. How poetic, Baekhyun scoffs. He’s totally judging the moral compass of him too, of course, the scum.

Jaehyeon comes then when the clock strikes eleven on his pocket watch. Baekhyun gives the draft to him, along with his allowance of taffy. His nose is ruddy. Baekhyun didn’t even notice how chill of a night it was. 

It’s all wrapped up for this issue now. 

Baekhyun grabs a scarf and wraps it around Kyungsoo. “Home you go!”

“Do I have to?” Kyungsoo asks, a drawl, because he woke up earlier than usual to do some gardening. 

“No,” Baekhyun says. “I have plenty of bed.” Like Kyungsoo didn’t know this, like Baekhyun had to say it at all. 

“But I’ll still go,” he shakes his head. Then again, but the other direction. Baekhyun kind of speaks that language, so he nods back, makes a pretty bow of the tie around his neck, and as usual, as every night, walks Kyungsoo home.

 

There are two newspapers in town. Well, there are more, but just these two matter. 

They’re the very, very much anticipated monthly periodicals, coming out on every last Sunday of the month. They’re not like the diluted daily ones full of tittle-tattle and insubstantiality, they are The Sunday Newspapers.

The Clandestines, which is, without a doubt, the best paper ever since writing was invented. 

And The Blazing Moon, which sounds uninspired at best, in Baekhyun’s decidedly almighty opinion. But what else can be expected from a newspaper whose ace journalist is a ginormous snot pudding. Their logo looks like the turd Baekhyun laboured this morning. An uncanny resemblance, truly.

Actually no, scrap that, just  _ one _ matters. The Clandestine a is the only newspaper ever, all the others can go home. 

And Baekhyun lives with it basically. His apartment is on top of the office, the whole stubby building belonging to him. He sleeps where his heart is. Every morning, after breakfast - because it is the most important meal of the day and Baekhyun's whole day frankly sucks if he starts it on an empty stomach – he descends into their creative den, which consists of raw, exposed pipes (because plumbing is expensive) yellowed curtains (they were a cute yellow to begin with, they aren’t no ragamuffins), low light (because the office is sort of in the basement) and a plethora of gas lamps because Kyungsoo got them as a deal from one of the gas sellers a few years ago, and they’re still on unlimited supply. Once that runs out, they’ll wash the windows and take the curtains down. But until then, they will continue stewing in the sexy mysteriousness and eye strain of working in an office so dim they sometime confuse each other for ghosts.

There are three desks, of which Baekhyun’s is the biggest because he is the most important. He’s the one organising the files Jongdae and Kyungsoo submit to him, as well as the supplements from the other agencies. He also is in charge of the draft, because he is the most artistically inclined and can make a good composition, and he has immaculate taste in fonts. 

Baekhyun enjoys this job a lot. He was inclined into the field ever since he was young. His floppy townlet didn’t have a newspaper of its own, and he often read the news of the bigger cities nearby. So Baekhyun took matters into his own hands and made this single-page poster type thing full of the daily concerns of the place. He was the hero the town.

Then the moment he was old enough to go out into the world by himself, he packed his bags and got on the first train. The little newspaper died along with his departure, and the town hates him now. But that’s okay, he only needs his parents to love him. Which they do. A lot. 

Baekhyun picks up their latest issue, freshly dropped on his threshold. He reads it in his bathrobe, in the armchair fitted snug in the tiny amount of veranda allotted on the second floor. The street ahead is silent, for it is past the rush hour. 

There’s no meek news. There is a main peace, usually taking a third to half of all the pages, and later completed other columns are just as interesting and detailed. The topics range from politics to cultural news, to a dash of celebrity prattle, to literature, to the jokes and of course the comic. Which is now famous, a classic, as it has been going on for years. It depicts familial conflicts in a ludicrous but educative manner. And it is  _ great _ . 

Well now, Baekhyun is not about to detail everything that is in it, there’s still time for you to go out and get your own issue, three thousand won at the press store if you aren’t subscribed already. 

After he finishes going through his own sublime newspaper (Buy Now!) and making some mental notes along the way of things he wants to tweak for next time, Baekhyun moves on to Park’s newspaper. Which he is subscribed to because while not on par with his own, this category of publication doesn’t have many other participants, and it would be reckless of Baekhyun to not know what’s hogging his market.  

The cover page is unremarkable at best. Does he really think titles have to be this big, do his readers see with their knees. Baekhyun scoffs, and turns the page. And there, among stuffed pepper recipes and the etymology of a neologism no one would ever use, is a picture of...the bribe Baekhyun wrestled out of him the other night. 

Baekhyun pulls the paper closer. And closer. And looks really carefully.. 

And it’s not the same.

It’s not the same bribe. It  _ is _ addressed to the same person, and has a card with the same message, but it is a much bigger sum, and the pencraft is not matching. 

“He forged it,” Baekhyun whispers to himself. “Oh my god, he forged it.” 

The one Baekhyun has is forged, while Park has the original. He  _ did _ think the sum was too small and that the way it was presented was too basic and not stealthy enough, but didn’t think Park would be working with such stunts. 

Which means Baekhyun just put fake news in his paper. Not fake fake because there was a bribe present and the names of the ones involved are correct. But the evidence itself is perjurious. 

Baekhyun exhales. His good morning is no longer good. 

He puts the paper down, closes his eyes and sinks into the dusty, itchy armchair. 

He groans into his chest, animalistic. “God fucking dammit, Park, you clogged urethra.”

  
  


“I have diarrhoea,” Baekhyun pouts, cascading into the office, hands cradling the pregnancy of his rioting, aqueous faecal distress.

“Do you ever consider that maybe we don’t want to know that?” Kyungsoo asks, tucking a third pencil behind his ear. How does he even do that. Baekhyun is jealous. He’s been jealous of a lot of things today. It’s a jealous kind of day, it seems. 

“Oh, but you totally do,” Baekhyun complains, penny pinching pity.

“We don’t,” Jongdae cheeps, a corpse hunched over his typewriter, chronicling the forbidden, steamy romance between a corporate chief and his secretary. As everyday sensationalist as an article could be, but Baekhyun already foresees a few thousand units sold, maybe reaching five figures, and he would honestly buy tapes with the sound of pouring money and listen to it all day. Gossip everywhere swarming like maggots. Ah. He looks at the sky. Well, the ceiling is between him and the sky, but the thought is the one that counts.

“You do,” Baekhyun counters, just because he is the boss, and they must let him have the last word, irrespective of whether he’s right or not. Which makes him always right.

Kyungsoo sighs, puts a  _ fourth _ pencil behind his ear. Baekhyun huffs, and reaches for the pencil case on his desk. “Did you eat something off?”

The corners of Baekhyun’s mouth descend into hell. “I think there was something in the drink I stole from the bar last night. Might’ve been spiked.”

Kyungsoo makes a face at him. The admonishment face. The you should’ve been more careful face. 

This wouldn’t the first time Baekhyun got accidentally drugged. Kyungsoo is just waiting for the  _ last _ time this happens. 

Until Jongdae bursts into laughter again. “You snuck to the gelato parlour for ice cream again.”

Baekhyun’s face is made of stone. He straightens his shoulders. He faces the back of Jongdae’s head. “No.”

Jongdae laughs again. Hahahahaaaa. How funny. Really. Hahahaha— “You went to flirt with Somin,” Kyungsoo deadpans. He also returns to his typewriter, very pointedly going clank clank clank at him. How dare he.

Baekhyun’s back is so straight it’s concave. “No.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s not too late! She can marry me, not him!” Baekhyun bursts, sodden with faux bitterness. 

“Just go to work. I don’t feel like waiting around for your ass today too.”

“Yessir,” Baekhyun says, and sits at his desk. And works.

And also, Baekhyun is gay. As gay as gayness can be. There isn’t any sexuality crisis drama here, sorry. 

 

_ Two Chinese billionaire lesbians get married, now making for the richest couple in the world, _ Baekhyun types. 

“That sounds believable to you?” Jongdae asks, ruler under his shirt to scratch his back. Scrape scrape scrape. Scrape scrape. And now he will need someone to put some ointment on it, because of course Jongdae would be looking to scratch his skeleton. 

“No, but sensationalist enough that they’ll buy the next issue when we debunk this,” Baekhyun responds, nose sky-high.

“And Papa approves?”

“He will, because my name is on the article.”

Jongdae whacks him with the ruler, then attempts to pretty please Kyungsoo into taking care of his back.

 

Baekhyun ran down the street to the cinematograph to get some of that  _ ground-breaking _ caramel popcorn. Kyungsoo has a sachet of toasted sesame seeds – and keeps it in the same pouch he keeps his identification and keys in, for it is of the same importance – and he promptly sprinkles it into their canvas bag of popcorn. God made sesame first, and then humans, Baekhyun is convinced. And Kyungsoo is a man of order, and pleasure comes first and foremost. Baekhyun has always admired that.

They cuddle up on under the woollen blanket Baekhyun bought from home, on the couch Baekhyun thrifted from the port. Its origin is unclear, but it is definitely alien, and posh, and  _ comfortable _ . Jongdae, the tyrant, seized all the pillows. He will only give them back in exchange for their firstborns.

With this, they’re set to start on the Movie Night. 

It happens bi-monthly, using the projector the landlord left there and Baekhyun reconditioned. It still has its skips, spikes of black poking the film from time to time, but it still makes for a good time. There’s no film lag that can’t be covered with a little cuddling. 

But not all of them can be good, so it is also serves as a therapy session. “I think I’ll have to get my wisdom tooth out,” Kyungsoo says. 

Ouch. Baekhyun hugs him. Tells him it’s okay, you already have more then enough wisdom, you won’t lose too much. 

Jongdae: “The cats outside my window are in heat and they keep caterwauling every night. I’m about to do some catocide.” 

“I have nothing against that,” Baekhyun says at the same time Kyungsoo says, “Have you tired breeding them yourself?”

This is why Baekhyun likes Kyungsoo so much. He makes to kiss him on the cheek, and he is denied, though with very little resolve. 

As for Baekhyun, he only has: “Fuckign Park.”

“Yep.”

“Old story,” Jongdae grumbles. 

The movie doesn’t have the whole tape, and it glitches, but none of them mind. Instead of deciding who takes the bed, they leave it empty, and cocoon themselves into one another on the floor.

Baekhyun mostly works in bars. Incognito. He has a dresser full of props, personas on hangers. He’s a master of disguise. An elite impersonator. Baekhyun could tirade on and on, but the point is that he’s good at being other people other than himself as well. Which, if he digs hard enough into his mental venters, might be telling of a malady of his mental condition. But he’s too busy to do that, so.

But other times, he works in shabby, smelly places full of rebelling kids and loathing. 

Right now he’s involved with some little gang distributing western weapons. It will make for a very good main article, and Baekhyun has spend a lot of time and resources into infiltrating in this business. 

“You’ll die,” Jongdae singsongs, pinching the ukulele in his hands. Where did that come from.

“So what,” Baekhyun whistles, tousling his hair. The tousle before that was better. More tousled. Not all tousles are created equal. 

“Right,” Jongdae scoffs. “Not a single soul will miss you.”

Baekhyun laughs. “Play me a dirge, will you?”

“I won’t even have the time to learn it.”

His blood is pricking. Like there must be some parasite having a coup de tat in his veins, the system oppressing it as it thrashes for freedom. Baekhyun can and  _ will _ politicize his cardiovascular system for the sake of loquacity, what about it.

Baekhyun shrugs, puts his jacket on, and struts into the adventure.

  
  
  


A long ass story later, it’s past midnight, and Baekhyun is in jail. They redecorated a little. Painted the cell buttery shade of cream, Baekhyun is nearabout licking it. Because these people aren’t feeding him. Which is against the human rights or something. Baekhyun would’ve preferred death to this kind of suffering. Or Baekhyun just has a very low tolerance for bodily insufficiencies. Hunger is  _ so _ last century.

Then he looks to the side and his appetite deceases.  

Because Park is in here with him, spread on the floor of the cell like a miscarried skidmark, reading a stained booklet of jokes, his laughter a hymn to the devils.

Baekhyun will take that book, set it on fire under his ass, and eat his insipid meat if he doesn’t stop that right now.

But Baekhyun will not tell him to shut up. Will not talk to him. His saliva is precious. His tongue is precious. His voice is precious. And this scrotal turnip deserves none of it.

He shouldn’t even be here. This was  _ Baekhyun’s _ lead. It was  _ his _ investigation. If only he didn’t show up there too, and stirred some shit, which ended up involving Baekhyun too, which then escalated in a fight so nasty that the police got called. There were  _ pistols _ and bats and small explosives and handcuffs. Baekhyun was in a difficult position because he was just  _ pretending _ to be one of them, but he doesn’t actually belong to their rig, and that’s a fact a police officer isn’t easily convinced of when he was captured right there with them. 

So Baekhyun is now hungry and angry and Park hasn’t stopped laughing at his stupid jokes yet. 

Baekhyun hits on the bars of the cell again, asking for attention. 

Minseok is not paying any attention to them now, as he has quite a crowd to take care of. They’re left there to rot for hours until he’s back. 

“Why should I let you go?” he sighs, finally coming up to their cell. His uninform is wrinkled, just a little, and his complexion is ashen, just a little, but otherwise he looks like the fairy he has always been. 

Baekhyun gets up at once. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Minseok looks at him blankly. His eyes are too pretty to suit such a stare, and Baekhyun is significantly unnerved. “Okay,” he says. 

He looks towards Park, then back at Baekhyun. “Well, who is it,” he asks. “The Leader. If you got in and caused  _ this _ \- “he cocks his head towards the swarm on the other side of the station, and yeah indeed, they might’ve been the spark for this whole fight. “You must also know who it is.”

But Baekhyun is silent. Because Baekhyun doesn’t know. Or he knows but he doesn’t know the name. But he saw him. “Tall. Big nose. Red shirt. Shaggy haircut, hair long all around,” Baekhyun tries. 

“At this point, it could be Park,” Minseok laughs humourlessly. ”These kids aren’t saying anything. I don’t know what sort of brotherhood they have but it’s impossible to get it from them. They’re all the leader at this point.” 

All Baekhyun can do is make a sympathetic face. 

Then Park gets up. “I know him, and it isn’t me,” he chuckles. “I can show you though.”

Show him  _ how _ , Baekhyun wonders because he knows for a fact that the boss escaped and they don’t have any photographs on him. 

Park asks for paper and a pencil. Baekhyun peers with his eyebrows up, sceptical at what he can do with that. 

Then Baekhyun’s face promptly falls when Park begins drawing,  _ realistically _ , the face of the boss. In just a few lines, he’s there, clear as day. 

Minseok runs back to his desk to come back with a photograph and, “It’s him!” Baekhyun bursts, very clearly, as though he’s of any help at this point and it wasn’t Park who did all the work. 

“It’s him,” Park confirms.

“He’s here,” Minseok says. He gives the drawing and the photo to an officer, after which he peers at them. “I really hope I’ll never see you two again,” he sighs.

“Aw, but I hope to see you again,” Park interjects. Baekhyun ignores him and makes a beeline for the door of the cell.

An officer unlocks it, and Baekhyun is a free man again. 

  
  
  


Baekhyun steps out of the police station. He will have to go home on foot. He sighs, hungrily. It’s a long way. 

“Hey, I can give you a ride,” he hears. He turns to the side to see Park just about to enter a car. Someone came for him. Baekhyun’s own sweetpeas need their sleep. Baekhyun would never wake them. 

He rolls his eyes. “Shove that up your nipple, Park,” he says, and turns in the other direction to go home.  

It takes a long time, and Baekhyun is tired and dirty, and stuffs two briquettes into the heater, eats while washing up (at how hungry he is, this is very doable), then goes to bed. 

Drawing huh.  _ Drawing _ . If that clitoral mollusc can do it, anyone can do that. Pfft. Mutter mutter mutter mutter mutter, until Baekhyun falls asleep.

 

It’s Wednesday. 

On Wednesday, they do the gossip column, the unpopular opinion column, and the styling tips column. The Clandestines is a gazette that has versatilty, and entertainment, sourced in various fields, and all in the flair of their personal style. This is a mantra you’ve hear before, but Baekhyun wouldn’t miss any opportunity of advertisement.   

Currently, there is one column left to fill. The wife of a politician went out with a skirt above the knee. Wow, outrageous. Of course, they refit it to their brand, brining into debate about modesty, about what it represents currently compared to its provenance, and what conditions the responsive conduct. Please, they’re not that trashy newspaper to jump on the shaming bandwagon. 

It’s a normal day. A slow day. An easy day.  

Midday, Kyungsoo catches him by the collar before he gets to skip down to Somin’s for more ice cream. Not because he cares for the health of his bowels, but because he actually cooked for them. And he didn’t wake up at wtf o’clock for the food to go to waste. Baekhyun wouldn’t disrespect his effort like this in a million years. Kyungsoo’s cooking is scrumptious, and Baekhyun makes sure to tell him this through every greasy smooch he tries to land on his cheek as he munches. Thus far, not a single victory, but that doesn’t lessen Baekhyun’s delight. 

After lunching, they lounge on the patch of the roof that Baekhyun cleaned up, triangling the foldable wooden table (because they can’t  _ circle _ it with the number they have, geometrically speaking) and playing cards and bantering until it is time for Baekhyun to walk them home.  

  
  
  


This month Kyungsoo is writing about how rice is bad for you, don’t eat rice, while last month he wrote about how rice is good for you, eat rice. Baekhyun gently pulls on his ears to release the steam every time he passes by.

The main event of today is the flower bouquet that is delivered to their office. It’s for Jongdae, as usual. 

He gets one about six times throughout the year, from a supposedly anonymous sender. Jongdae says that he has no idea who it could be from, and Baekhyun believes him but also doesn’t really believe him because Jongdae is a man of secrecy. Baekhyun knows his favourite food and his shoe size and his stance on the new sewage system, but doesn’t know a whole lot aside this superficial layer of visible characteristics. 

“Is someone trying to buy you?” Baekhyun asks, sniffing them lightly. They smell like flowers. Baekhyun would describe the scent more competently if he actually gave a fuck about them. 

“I cost three clouds and Jupite,” Jongdae says, untying the wrapper of the bouquet. “Flowers won’t cut it”

He places them in that vase Kyungsoo sometimes drinks his tea out of. He will keep it on his desk until the stems begin rotting and has to be bullied into throwing them out.

This flower mystery won’t be solved. Don’t expect that. Some things are better left unknown. 

“Could this be a case?” Kyungsoo asks. He’s now typing so fast, it’s almost a continuous sound. Which means he’s writing bullshit and he just wants to get it over with. 

Jongdae sits back down and opens up this book about architectural conservation. “Could be. But why would it.”

“Because we want to eat?” Baekhyun says. They do hold their paper up to a high standard but that doesn’t mean desperation never pushed them to settle for less. 

“Sure you do,” Jongdae says, and with this the subject is closed. 

  
  
  
  


Baekhyun’s name today is Eugene (with a western enunciation for a dash of exoticism) and he has been living abroad for a while, and intends to go right back after a short visit. People love foreigners. Temporary stays. Especially dashing ones like Baekhyun. He’s a mirage of charm and coquetry, stealing all their secrets, and discarding them at the border before leaving the country. Baekhyun found out about a few bastard children this way, not that they aren’t common, but they are powerful. Bastards sell him at least a thousand units, Baekhyun loves bastards. 

Eugene, fake moustache built from medical glue – courtesy of nurse Miyeon at the dispensary, bless her soul, in gratefulness for exposing her husband’s affair – and clipping of his own hair because he’s not anything if not dedicated, even at the expense of mauled sideburns. They’ll be covered by his hat anyway – the purple one. Purple makes him more bohemian, more libertine, risqué.  Or so say the colour theorists – a bunch of old men with clairvoyant eyes, or something. But Baekhyun trusts them. So purple it is, assonant with his handkerchief, not folded, but artfully jammed into the breast pocket of his blazer, because while he is a gentleman, as signalled by the presence of the handkerchief, he’s a bit of a rowdier, looser one – proper, with enough impropriety to not make anyone shy about oversharing.

Baekhyun says his name a few times. Eugene. Eugene. Eugene. Eugene. Settles on a tone, a top and a tail, and accompanies it with four kinds of smiles, going through each a few times, until his face learns them. He goes for tenor, voice dipped into the grave, pace slow, tardy, lazy enough to seem ponderous – as though he’s listening, mostly listening, and entangling just to egg them on.

Baekhyun puts the hat on, buckles his belt  - to the side, for some reason, an element of interest, of dissimilarity – and steps out as Eugene.

  
  
  
  


Honestly at this point, would anyone even be surprised if Baekhyun ends up breaking Park’s neck. 

Eugene is having a wonderful evening at a convention, talking to a foreign affairs delegate about a rumour saying there’s a chance a big south-eastern company wants to open construction material factories throughout the entire country. Which is a mouthful that people are interested in, as there are many facets to this if indeed launces. 

This was going  _ so _ well, until the delegate took a trip to the restroom, and when he returned to their table, Park was talking to him.

Why why why  _ why _ does he always have to fuck with Baekhyun’s business,  _ why _ ?!

Eugene keeps a straight face. He shakes hands with Park, who presents himself as Loey, whatever that means, and they all, amicably, sit together. Eugene immediately makes to get the delegate on his side again, because he would be damned if he lets Park steal material from him again. 

In unspoken decorum, the moment he saw that Baekhyun was already onto this, he should’ve bowed out. For them, a story becomes null if it is not exclusive. 

But Park isn’t backing down. Oh no, he’s persisting. And the delegate isn’t dumb (Baekhyun would love to acquaintance him even better, he’s a very personable individual) and catches on the fact that they’re both trying to pull on his tongue. He gets annoyed, and begins asking some questions that reach too far into Eugene, and Baekhyun didn’t build him that far. 

Then Park says something overly prying with a resounding tactlessness, and the delegate excuses himself from their table and leaves.

Park is looking sheepishly at his own lap.

He ruined this. He ruined it for both of them.

Baekhyun closes his eyes, counts to three, and tries really hard not to send him to the morgue. 

  
  
  


Baekhyun doesn’t read literature, he only reads dictionaries, politics, science, biology and engineering. He doesn’t have time for any skimpy love tales, for princes and other breeds of make-believe poppycock. His time is per second is worth more per gram than gold (he really did the maths once, do  _ not _ doubt this).

Which is why he is currently in front of a high school looking to slander some kids into giving up their literature essay for the newest book they’re studying. They need that column very very solid. And just none of them have time for that.

So this afternoon Baekhyun is a very very very creepy guy beckoning kids into a gang, hat low over his eyes, and asking, “What are you reading these days?”

The one who answers excitedly is the one. The other section seem just really disappointed that he’s not there to distribute them cigarettes. That stuff nasty, nope.

It’s not as unscrupulous, because Baekhyun does it the official way. He presents a contract to them, has their addresses and names of their parents, and also lays it very thickly about monetizing their studies early, this is like small size entrepreneurship. They’re not lies. They’re just swollen, exacerbated, sensationalized truths. Which doesn’t quite breach any ethical dams. Baekhyun hasn’t been wrong in his life.

It takes around five tries until he gets one. It used to be three. He’s losing his hand. 

 

It’s Tuesday evening. Baekhyun is renovating. He saw some pretty artisanal tiles at the flea market. Not many of them, just a couple dozen pieces, which Baekhyun estimated would fit just right above his kitchen table. They’re hand painted with some oriental motifs, and glazed thick and glossy. Pretty.

He hears someone screaming his name. By the voice, it’s little Taeyongie. Baekhyun finishes spreading the plaster on his trowel before he peeks his head out the window. 

“For you, sir!” Taeyong says, waving an envelope, his voice hoarse. Baekhyun has heard that the flu is going around in some schools. Hopefully it is contained. Baekhyun packs up a little sachet of honey ginger pastilles and throws it to him in exchange for the letter.  

Baekhyun looks at the envelope. There is no name, just his address, and hand signed, not printed.

It doesn’t say who it is from, who it is for, but Taeyong is already too far for Baekhyun to call him back. Unopened, he puts it away from the splatters of plaster, and humming along to a rhythm of nowhere, he continues finishing up his tiling.

They do fit perfectly. Baekhyun has never been wrong in his whole life.

After cleaning up, he opens the envelope, sitting at his table, now with a beautiful ornamented wall to the side. He gets up again to fix his bowl of porridge, seasoning it lightly, and topping it with an egg and green onions. It’s pretty. He takes out his photo camera for a picture. Just one try, because he doesn’t have much film left.

As he eats, he picks up the envelope again. He pulls the contents out.

_ Oh _ . 

It’s an invitation from the mayor. Baekhyun reads that again. The  _ mayor _ .

Tomorrow at 9 in the morning, at the city hall office. Baekhyun whistles. Oh well. It doesn’t seem too hostile. Baekhyun will go see what’s up with that, out of curiosity more than anything. 

He keeps eating his juk. It’s good. He eats with one hand, while with the other he pens a letter to his mother, saying how it tastes just like she makes it, meaning she taught him well. He signs it. Tomorrow, after he develops it, he will attach the photograph as well.

Then given he has to go to the city hall tomorrow, he has to hand in his columns so they don’t fall on Kyungsoo or Jongdae. Not that their kind souls wouldn’t do it, but it has the potential of trying to milk something bigger out of him for this favour, and knowing how demonic they can turn, Baekhyun is sure his udders of goodwill will not be able to handle the demand.

So he sketches out his columns and puts them on his desk next to his typewriter – he will have the time to type them out tomorrow. Then he picks up Kyung from the drying wire, and takes it to sleep with him.

 

Baekhyun puts on some of his nicer clothes. Not too nice though, this isn’t something he would consider that much of a special occasion. And these people in power should get out of their head that they’re worth that much to everyone, and Baekhyun is keen on demonstrating this through his attire. But he washes his hair though, quickly in the basin with leftover warm water from is tea. 

When he breaks the news of his invitation to Kyungsoo and Jongdae, who are just settling at their desks – Jongdae has a new hat, tawny wool, and it suits him – they don’t say anything, but their eyebrows – the bushies and the straights – do some questionable acrobatics.

“Try to be back before noon, so we can go to the orchard,” Kyungsoo says. 

Oh, to pick the apricots. Baekhyun forgot about that. They would never leave the apricots unpicked.

Kyungsoo puts one in his pocket, ripe, soft. Baekhyun turns around, and presents his other pocket as well. So he leaves with four apricots and a syrupy adieu in case the mayor abducts him or something. Not many people are safe from the paranoia of the government these days.

  
  
  


He pedals to the city hall on his bicycle. Th break hisses a little, and he meant to fix that for a while, and he will, later. He really will. Which sounds a bit like a bird chirping. Which is pleasant in a way. But he will really get to fixing it. 

The weather is cool enough that he doesn’t sweat yet. One hand on the handle bar, one holding an apricot  – they really are sweet, Baekhyun smiles as he chews, and pedal pedal pedalling to what could be his demise. At least the breeze is nice.

He makes it there soon. He props his bike on the side of the wall, and enters. To the receptionist, he presents the letter. He gets bowed to immediately, after which the woman guides him upstairs into an insular apartment of sorts. It’s obviously not open to the public. 

Baekhyun doesn’t even get to take in the whole situation before a man approaches him. Old, clad in a suit, hand out to shake Baekhyun’s.

“Park Daehwi,” he says, face stricken with lines. Baekhyun recognizes the name at once. He’s The judge of the supreme court. That’s the damn judge of the supreme court.  _ Ooooh _ . 

Baekhyun bows along with this handshake. “Byun Baekhyun,” he introduces. 

“I was hoping so,” he laughs. 

Baekhyun has seen some pictures of him, of course, his face is well known, but he doesn’t look quite the same. He should have brought his camera with him. The profile picture could use an update. 

He smiles at Baekhyun. Seems like he will not get abducted and decapitated any time soon, but he wouldn’t trust that all the way. 

The judge invites him forward, and they walk through more corridors until the space breaks, and they enter a big room ending in two equally big doors. In front of which, another figure is standing. Once near enough, Baekhyun bows to them too.

Then the person turns around.

And it’s fucking  _ Park _ . 

Baekhyun wants to slap himself. Who else could have the constitution of a twiggy lump of melted lard, Baekhyun should’ve realized sooner. 

But Baekhyun can be civil. So he finishes his bow, and turns to the judge. “Am I late?” he asks. He realizes he forgot his pocket watch. He only has it on him when he goes out.

“The mayor is,” Park Daehwi speaks, shaking his head. His eyes are sunken, and though their colour is abysmal, they catch too much light. It’s confounding, and also welcoming. “I will go check up on him now,” he bows out. 

Baekhyun along with Park move to the other side of the massive doors as the judge slips through inside the room. Baekhyun measures. Five judges sitting on top of each other could pass through this door. Such needless opulence, he makes a face.

“So how bad have you fucked up?” Park speaks. Who allowed him to speak. Baekhyun doesn’t remember allowing him. But what would an overcooked dandruff nugget know about etiquette and boundaries.

“Not worse than you,” Baekhyun intones, his previously apricot sweet mouth turning acetous. Good thing he has one left in his pocket.

“Ah,” he says, a hum, like a pot dropped down the stairs, zingy-ugly. “Might be. You never had the  _ pugnacity _ to take any significant risks.”

Baekhyun pets the apricot in his pocket. Its fuzz yeileds to his caress. “You learned this word just this morning, didn’t you? And you used it wrong.”

Park tsks. He does that wrong, too, his tongue clicking against his teeth instead of his palate, the sound hollow, and making absolutely no point. “Superficial as always,” he comments.

“Superficial is better than ignorant, don’t you think?” Baekhyun queries, looking for his gaze. He doesn’t find it, as Park is looking straight ahead. There’s a sizeable painting on the wall. He can attribute it to the mid-west, but not more precise than that. It depicts a fight, people who fear life more than death, and artillery made more of hope than of power. Baekhyun can’t tell if he likes it or not.

“I think it’s worse.”

“You  _ think _ ?” Baekhyun asks, lip pulling over his teeth. “You know how to do that too?”

Park looks at him. He scoffs. “You have less class than the dirt on my feet.”

“Why is there dirt on your feet, Park, don’t you wash?”

Park turns his body fully towards Baekhyun. Aggressive, but distanced. Baekhyun keeps petting the apricot. The people in the painting gasp.

“I do. But you’re dirty in a way that no water and no lather can clean.”

“Oh, is that so,” Baekhyun mutters. He mauled a dimple into the apricot. He balls his hand next to it, leaving it be. “Pray tell.”

Then they’re at each other’s necks. Literally. When aren’t they. Baekhyun nearly feels like his stand-in noose at this point. Park is also grabbing his collar, and Baekhyun does not appreciate that because he worked on flattening it to perfection.  

“You don’t even deserve anyone to treat you nicely, niceness would be wasted on you,” Baekhyun says. 

“Almighty little Byun, you really think you have such power of judgment, when you have no appraisal of any sort of conduct.” 

“Careful Park, you’re reaching for things out of your bounds,”

“I can do that though, unlike you midgety little thing,” Park smiles.

“Do your stretched little bones afford to say that? I don’t think it takes more than a slight nudge from me for you to crash down,” And Baekhyun poses his leg right where he wants it. It’s convenient how his knee is around a third down his tibia. It hurts like an absolute cunt if he hits there.

“I’m usually pretty kind, but this doesn’t mean I’ll always let you win,” Park grunts. 

“You  _ let _ me win?” Baekhyun scoffs. “You barely have any handsome features, and you add arrogance to it too?”

“For someone who claims my hideousness over and over, your eye seems to be on me too much.” 

“Morbid curiosity. The grotesque fascinates the mind,” Baekhyun cocks his head towards the painting. “Just like these guys over there.”

“Your cowardice won’t ever allow you to fight for what they’re fighting. You don’t have any room to judge their appearance,”

“But why are you speaking as though you’re one of them? What do you fight for?”

Park’s hands get on him too. They grasp with belligerence. “When will you stop talking as if you’re mightier than me, Byun?”

Baekhyun tips his head back. “Aren’t I?

“Is there anyone or anything else who agrees with you other than your self-importance?” 

“You can’t answer that yourself. You ain’t shit either, Park, stop pretending you are,” Baekhyun says, making to punch him.

Someone clears their throat. Baekhyun doesn’t have time to pay attention to anything else other than  _ lynching _ Park. But Park is also tugging at him, which makes him face the front of the room. And he notices that the doors are open. And the mayor is standing there as well. Looking at how Park is oh so affectionately aiming to break Baekhyun’s ribs.

Baekhyun pulls himself away, extricating himself from Park’s talons. He pats down his shirt Then facing the mayor, he bows. 

The mayor keeps peering at them, then chirrups a gruff chuckle. “Come on in, both of you,” he says. 

  
  


The arrangement at the table is in a cross formation. The mayor sits at the top of it, the judge stands by his side, and Baekhyun is facing Park. Which is unpleasant, so he pivots his whole stance towards the mayor. He’s here for him, not for park.

“If there’s any tension or fear regarding my summons, you can free yourselves of it now.”

Oh phew. Baekhyun breathes out easy. Kim Junmyeon is a delightful man. At the elections, Baekhyun voted for him with his whole heart. 

“I don’t know if to call this an offer for you or a cry for help,” he speaks. “It’s a mixture of both. And I wish it wasn’t necessary, but it is.”

Baekhyun is more and more curious. He nods encouragingly towards the mayor, who gives the slightest grin at it. 

“To surmise the issue, we know of some people who have done and still do unspeakable things, but who have connections so high up that nothing can be done against them. Our investigative teams are frozen because of this. I’ve heard them flat out refuse taking on any relating issue.”

Baekhyun is now  _ highly _ intrigued. 

“If government organs cannot be used for this, we thought we’d reach out to…other ends of this profession,” he continues, his warm gaze going from Baekhyun to Park and back. “We need evidence. Which is exactly the sort of things your publications present – I’m a big fan by the way, I’ve read every issue.”

“Thank you,” Baekhyun says.

Park doesn’t say it. The unmannered noodle he is. 

“So I’d like you two to work together in bringing in enough evidence for adjudgment.” 

“I have my own team,” Park replies at once. 

Baekhyun doesn’t want to say me too, because Baekhyun won’t be ever seconding something Park says. “I have my people,” Baekhyun says instead. 50% the same, but it is not a victory for Park.

The mayor doesn’t say anything. 

“Why do you need both of us?” Park asks. 

“I do not mean any offence,” Junmyeon says. “But I think this is too big for you two by yourselves.” 

Baekhyun didn’t think of that. Because he has yet to encounter a case that felt too big for them. 

“You’re both very,  _ very _ good,” he says. Baekhyun’s balls are turgid with the praise, and he opens his legs slightly the same way he opens his mouth for a smile. “But you have different skills and approaches, and as I need this done as soon as possible, I think this will speed up the process.” 

Baekhyun looks down. So this is very big. And it involves people so high up not even the government can do something about it. 

“I’ll think about it,” Baekhyun says. 

“There are other people I could reach out for this, but I wouldn’t trust them as much as I trust you,” says Junmyeon. “I truly hope you’ll give me a positive answer. You shall be in contact with the judge,” he nods towards him, “as he is in fact coordinating the lawsuits.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Park says as well. 

“You have the time for it, but not too much, please.”

Baekhyun doesn’t have anything more to say, nor ask. He just wasn’t expecting this. Any of this. The mayor gets up. Another round of shaking hands, of bows, before they’re seen to the door. The judge also says he’s expecting a positive answer. 

Baekhyun sighs, gets on his bike and pedals back.

  
  
  


Baekhyun made it on time to their orchard date.  

“Aren’t you gonna tell us?”

“You know I can’t do two things at the same time, and the sun is nearly setting,” Baekhyun utters. A bee is zooming around him. He has a feeling it will win, and Baekhyun will bloat to death after being stung. Not that it has happened before.

“Can you at least tell us if it’s good or if it’s bad,” Jongdae says, around the three seeds in his mouth. He just keeps them there, until he can no longer fit a whole apricot. Does he know they contain cyanide? Baekhyun imagines for a second the sharp point perforating through his cheek. 

“Spit those out,” he says, holding up his palm to Jongdae’s mouth.

Jongdae spits, and says, “You really are doing everything to avoid the subject.”

“Not like I’m going anywhere,” Baekhyun scoffs. “There is time.” 

“Reassuring,” Kyungsoo bellows, hugging a tree trunk, and giving it a good shake. “Now spill what the fuck it was about.” It’s raining apricots. Halleluiah. 

“Can’t I talk to Papa first?” he asks, looking between both of them. 

Jongdae picks up another basket, and crouches to the ground. “You can.”

Baekhyun smiles. The pressure if off his shoulders at least for now. He picks up a basket as well, and begins gathering along with them. 

It’s near sundown when they’re finished, now preparing them to dry. Pit and impale them on the string. Pit and impale. Pit and impale. Over and over and over. Baekhyun only stabs himself with the needle like a thousand times. 

“But,” Jongdae says when they get to the last basket. “Is it some sort of…deal?” 

Baekhyun found the apricot with the prettiest blush yet, and it deserves to be in his mouth. He eats it, slowly. And swallows, slowly. “Yeah.” 

Kyungsoo immediately puts his glasses back on to hear better. “A deal with the mayor?” 

“Isn’t that a accept it or die kind of thing?” Jongdae questions. Barbarians will be barbarians, and Jongdae is convinced that if he dies, he will transcend into some kind of grim reaper, not just a mere, mortal kind of death. Baekhyun appreciates his ambition.

“Didn’t think of that,” he says though. Because he didn’t. “They didn’t really threaten me.” The only thing truly bizzarre were the huge ass doors. Not like a human ass could ever be that big, this is just an allegory.

“Could be manipulation to make you think you’re safe even if you refuse,” Kyungsoo says, cheeks in two balloons with apricot moieties. His scepticism will never shut up, will it.

“No,” Baekhyun says, more of petulance than sureness.

Then silence. Yeah, they might be fucked. But it still doesn’t mean Baekhyun is rushing to accept. Baekhyun’s propriety wouldn’t quite permit it.

Then they keep impaling until the sun sets, and with a festive tinsel of fresh apricots around their neck each, they meander home, Baekhyun dropping them off one by one with a hug, then apricotily toddles home as well. 

 

Dinner is just him, his patch of new tiles in the kitchen, cold tea, and a slightly dry mound of pastries. Italian-ish pastries he bought from the bakery for fewer coins since the shop was just closing. 

As he eats, he checks on the mail, of which the biggest envelope is with additions from the other agencies they have spread out on the city and outside. In Daegu, someone stole fifty cows. How does one steal fifty cows. Baekhyun laughs, reads it over and over a few times, then on his notebook, compiles a list of more details he wants on this case. En masse cattle thieving might not be a sensational reportage, but it could be a good laugh. 

As Baekhyun lies in bed ready to sleep, he counts, one, two, three, four cows. Where are they? In his dreams? And Baekhyun is the thief.

 

Kyungsoo enters with his regular a stack of weeklies. They’re the competition, but not quite. They sometimes present stuff that they don’t afford to go in depth about, but their newspaper can, and it’s not quite stealing if they didn’t have the whole backstory in the first place, right?

Though today is Monday, and Mondays are field days, which means basically ambling around in hopes of catching onto any spicy hearsay. They have a few ongoing cases that they have under constant surveillance, but thus far they are moot – maybe the culprits caught on the fact that they were being watched. Baekhyun doesn’t really have the patience to be subtle all the time. Still, they’re worth checking up on. 

Kyungsoo and Jongdae go by themselves, Baekhyun giving Jongdae one of his hats, for it is sunny today, and he doesn’t have his. Sunburn looks horrific on him. 

“By the time we’re back, you better report,” Kyungsoo says, the door closing behind him. 

Baekhyun doesn’t have to leave yet. He huddles for a while in the dark room. 

Baekhyun loves being in the dark. And loves the whole developing process. It relaxes him. It’s his meditation. 

Until he gets to the last roll of film, of pictures from that fateful night when he got arrested. And though the captures are of worth, that stale old ham sandwich also appears in them. Smiling. Big. Why is his smile so big and his eyes so big and his ears so big? He should get that checked out. Not that Baekhyun cares about his health. He barely cares about his own, let alone Park’s. 

Baekhyun peers at his electrocuted mackerel of a face. Then grabs a pen and draws a dick over it.

It’s time to go.

Well, actually, Baekhyun is not the boss  _ boss _ . He’s the head of the investigative agency, which is the focus of their periodical, which makes him pretty boss. In fact he’s barely a boss, because there’s a bossier boss above him, though remote, and an even bossier boss above the bossy boss. But that’s all just semantics, you just need to know that Baekhyun boss enough on the scale of bossiness to be  _ boss _ .

Well this bossy boss is a comic artist. And a wine maker. And he’s old and cranky but also kind of funny, and is Baekhyun’s stand-in father figure. His benefactor. Papa. Sometimes he calls him Papaya. Which is cute. Papaya is cute. He only had that fruit once, and it was on a cruise ship he got on to spy on a couple as a side job, after her mother sent him to make sure her and her lover don’t consummate. They consummated. Baekhyun reported they didn’t. He got his money. And had some sweet, sweet papaya. 

Baekhyun pushes the gate open. The hinges mewl just the same as they did for years, and moving the gate back and forth is his surrogate doorbell. Not that Papa ever opens for anyone, so Baekhyun fusses with it just a few time to alert his arrival. 

Obligatorily, Baekhyun has three bottles of beer in his canvas bag. 

One so I can begin suffering you, one so I can keep suffering you, and one to unwind after having to suffer you – he said. Baekhyun thinks that’s mildly rude, but he is not about to call out his own saviour, because he himself is not that rude. In essence, patriarchy.

“Oh, finally,” Papa grumbles when he sees him, circle spectacles skewed on his face. Baekhyun forgot to buy him blades for his shaver as well, for he is so forested in hair, Baekhyun can barely see him. He has a hill of stubby, dulled out pencils, and he promptly throws him a penknife to get to work.

Baekhyun grumbles something about how he’s tired of being used as a human pencil sharpener for so long, and Papa laughs and adds two more pencils to the pile. 

“Old man, what’s up?” he asks, voice now smoother as he sips from the bottle that he opened on the edge of his lap drawing desk. He spreads out onto the porch – he gets out here in May and doesn’t leave until late October. In winter, he draws on the floor, by the fire pot.

“Who said something’s up,” Baekhyun says, swiping the blade of the penknife on the back of a bowl to sharpen it. 

“You wouldn’t be here.”

Okay, their relationship, while close, is mildly transactional. Emotionally transactional. Decisionally transactional. 

Baekhyun bites his lip. “I got a deal offer.”

“From who?” Papa asks, leaning back over his drawing desck. Scratch scratch scrath. The sound of it is irking instead of soothing, and Baekhyun feels like scratching the village of mosquito bites implanted on his forearms. Mosquitoes are but vengeful dust particles that should go extinct. 

“Kim Junmyeon,” Baekhyun says. Another pencil down. If it’s shorter than his pinky, it’s discarded, and Baekhyun has a small pile of them too, to hold them a small ceremony and tell them they worked hard before binning them. 

He laughs, smoother, and higher, a sparrow with the flu. “My bunny has grown a lot,” he twitters, scratch scratch, his pencil. “And what does he want?”

Baekhyun perks up. “Your bunny?”

“Eh,” he waves. “I know the kid. Now what does he want?”

Did papa sire this whole city, why does he know all the ‘kids’? But Baekhyun knows that if he asks, he won’t get a reply. “Help. And cooperation.”

“What kind of cooperation?”

“With another journalist.” 

“Ah,” Papa says, sound sharp. “I know exactly who.” 

Baekhyun winces, sharpens the penknife again. “Yeah.”

“And you dumbass refused that?”

“I didn’t refuse it,” Baekhyun defends. “It was agreed that we will give him the answer in a few days.”

“Junmyeon wouldn’t have reached out like this if it wasn’t over his hand,” Papa says, making to push his glasses up his nose and stamping them with a fat fingerprint of graphite. He curses, licks his finger, and rubs at the smudge. That didn’t work at all. 

“Been told.” Kim Junmyeon is truly known to be capable man. 

“So what are you here instead of getting your ass to work, old man?”

“Because I really cannot do this on my own.” His team is good, but this is too big. Entirely too big. And while Baekhyun is brave and his mouth is big, he might not be able to do this. He’s willing to risk himself as much as it is need, but not his precious boys.

“Get Park, and you can do it.”

“But it’s….Park.”

Baekhyun  _ knows _ he sounds like a child, sounds the very same as he sounded when he first cuddled under Papaya’s tutelage. And just like then, Papa is looking at him with disapproval. 

“You’re going to make good use of his ass and get this done,” he says. 

Baekhyun winces again. Papa doesn’t let him leave until he has sharpened all the pencils and gave him a massage. 

“Not bad, for some circumcision-induced brain damage,” spits Baekhyun, peering over Jongdae’s shoulder at the newspaper he’s reading. The Blazing Moon. The enemy. On the front page, the news Baekhyun was after a month ago, that Park snatched from him.

“You’re complimenting him more and more these days,” Jongdae says, eyes both narrow and wide. His eyes are weird.

“And we’re starving more and more these days, aren’t we?” he says, pointed, because Baekhyun did just grab the bills from the post on the way here.

Jongdae looks at the stack in his hands. Then looks away. “Kyungsoo will bring lunch.”

“Fantastic,” Baekhyun says, immediately lighting up. 

Then they wait with fanfare at the door for Kyungsoo to come with the food. As soon as they clean up all the containers after eating, they jump on him. 

“Now tell,” Kyungsoo orders. There is a tone which sounds more like he has Baekhyun by the balls and is just about dunking him into the latrine. And while Baekhyun has sold most of his self-preservation instinct to the devil, he still has a few crumbs left in the pocket of his basic functions. Sometimes he feeds them to the birds.

Baekhyun takes a deep breath in, tries to piece together everything that was poured on him, and tells the damn story, roundabout, with extra, important emphasis on the fact that there is no reasoning to ever be working with Park, and while this could mean their paper will go  _ supernova _ , they don’t need this.

At the end of it, “You’re a fucking idiot.”. 

Whoa. Normally usually Kyungsoo is one for deadpanning without saying anything and that is caustic enough on its own. He can cause chemical burns with his gaze alone, Baekhyun has gotten out of arguments with him as scarred as if he had gone to war, while he barely said anything. 

Now to actually use injurious verbiage. 

“Kyungsoo, watch your mouth.”

“I know your rather watch mine,” Kyungsoo replies and Baekhyun’s cheeks burn just a tiny bit because that might be hinting at someone were not deep enough into the story to admit to yet. This lil bitch. 

Jongdae however, one to usually giggle and nod and be a general spectacle of disapproval or approval or neutrality (and he manages to made that explosive too) is donning a very flat expression. As flat as if it had been ironed and stepped on and basically just spot on. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says as well.  

Kyungsoo shakes his head. 

“We’re doing this,” he declares, Jongdae nodding at once and Baekhyun’s boss balls shrink until they’re tiny little raisins. He doesn’t agree with how this is going.

“What did Papa say?” Jongdae asks.

Baekhyun knew this was coming, but is he any less irked about it, no, of course not, and he will continue this dialogued discourse in his head until Jongdae will have to stomp on his foot. Silence.  Flutes. The cars revving outside. One needs to check its breaks, that wasn’t a healthy squeak. Which reminds Baekhyun that he should look at his bike. Also, he can hear Kyungsoo blinking, and it sounds like dry leaves being crushed underfoot, because his gaze truly is that withering.

Baekhyun, as much as he if for fanfare and claiming that he is made of copper and indestructibility, is not really that solid.

“So, we’re doing it,” Jongdae concludes for him. He’s hip to hip with Kyungsoo. Siamese bastards.

Baekhyun huffs so long that he runs out of air. Sounds more like throat flatulence than protest, but Baekhyun is not about to make that comparison. “You two want to do it?” he asks.

They nod, in unison, because apparently, they’re into that now.

Baekhyun scowls, climactic. “Why?”

“Why not,” Jongdae shrugs. “This will be really big. And I’m kind of bored.”

“Bored?” Baekhyun queries. Okay, bored. Not like they don’t have shit to do, but they would like some bigger, more enticing, thrilling, shit to do, otherwise why would this even be written. A total waste. So maybe Baekhyun agrees with that. An itty bitty bit.

But what’s wrong with boring. Boring is good too. .The doldrums at their agency stretched and stretched, constant. Just going on and on. Like a clock. Baekhyun cannot make a funner simile because this is fundamentally not fun, which means he nailed it.  They’re old already. They need early nights and apricots and to complain when they do literally anything. Adventures and actions are for the younglings

“Yes,” Kyungsoo says.

“So, we’re doing it,” Jongdae repeats. He won’t give up until his point is made, and is made  _ really good _ .

Baekhyun stares. They won already. They all won already. This will be a trade of madness, and some dire collateral damage, maybe some deaths too, but they did win at last.

But Baekhyun doesn’t say yes. Nor okay. Nor any other kind of affirmation. He’s not about to verbalize his agreement to work with motherfucking Park.

“Now go tell him.”

“Me?”

Jongdae’s smile is a bonbon. An overolong, deceptive as hell bonbon. “Aren’t you our one and only beloved boss?” he asks, buttering up Baekhyun’s ass thoroughly. “As our leader, you represent us and our wishes.”

“If you don’t shut up right now,” Baekhyun hisses through his teeth.

Jongdae’s smile crumbles, his stare a gale.

“If you don’t go right now,” he throws back.

Kyungsoo bursts into laughter, just one bombastic huff, before he is silent and sitting back at his desk.

So this is the verdict.

No. No. Nononono.

Park should be the one coming to him. He has these lumber legs, he could be planted in a pot as plant support. He can also move them over to Baekhyun’s agency, and admit that this is something his team of inept vulgarians cannot accomplish on their own power. And he will beg and plead and be on his knees, head lowered, as he says please and please and please, Baekhyun, and Baekhyun will silence him by stuffing his foot into his mouth.

Baekhyun smiles. This is how it should go. This!

Not this other  _ this _ , which is Baekhyun currently pacing back and forth at the entrance of Park’s building. It is disjoined from his agency, unlike Baekhyun’s, and it’s this medium dwelling hosting a handful of apartments. Baekhyun knows where this is just because there isn’t anything he doesn’t know, and that includes Park’s address - and he is currently making heated eye contact with a black cat lounging about on the sill of his window, on the second floor. Is it his cat? Park likes cats? When Baekhyun thought he already couldn’t be more cancelled, he also associated with shady vertebrates.

He breathes out, and smooths down his hair. He didn’t even need his bike to get here, because while Baekhyun knew the location by name all along, he didn’t also know that it was this close to his agency. He doesn’t like this. This pollutant is too close to his nest, and now he will be under the impression that he can smell Park’s smelly feet from his own bed.

But outside of that, Baekhyun found himself some business to do in this direction as well. Baekhyun didn’t come all the way here just for Park, no way.

But he goes up. Room no. 22. It doesn’t even have a plate, just a scribble next to the door.

He looks at the wood. It’s cracked. The screws where the handle has been put in place splintered. He lived in a total pigcage doesn’t he.

Baekhyun knocks on Park’s door. He doesn’t knock. He’s a tank. A bulldozer. He’s a machinery of fury.

Then Park opens the door shirtless. The absence of a shirt. And presence of skin. Park skin. He has all the human bits there, the collarbones and the nipples – not pink, ha! – and the tummy – taut, very taut, and toned, like math paper, and that’s so unattractive, math, ew – and the belly button – so he’s not Eve huh and he’s been  _ birthed _ . Poor mama Park.

“Why if your nakedness in my face, Park?” Baekhyun questions, looking at the valley between his pectorals. There is too much valley. Since when does Park have such plump chest mounds. Someone can fall into there and die. He’s a public hazard, Baekhyun will report him.

“Why is your face in my nakedness, Byun?” he asks. Ah yes, his voice, because he has one, and a very unfortunate one, unfortunately, and he’s currently using it. And all in all Baekhyun is suddenly very, very, very, and one more  _ very _ , hot.

“I didn’t know you were about to take your udders out for a walk, my mistake,” he says, and as he says it, he huffs to himself, imagining a collar and a leash attached to each nipple, as he conducts them around the city. Exactly the kind of grotesque scandalousness that suits him.

“Since you’re here, you could help with that,” Park replies, and he flexes his pectorals. Boom boom, pow pow each one of them. Like a seizure, but for his udders. Baekhyun shivers, that nerve-inchingly disturbing it is.

“I will allow you that honour,” Baekhyun says, finally looking up, and up, and up, and up, is he really endless, until he makes eye contact with him. His eyes are brown. Dark brown. Almost black. So basic. “I’m here with other matters.”

Park leans against the door. He crosses his arms over his chest. At least the sight is less nipply now. Baekhyun can’t say that his head doesn’t look good on his shoulders, because neither his head nor his shoulders actually looks good, thusly his ugly head looks good on his ugly shoulders, and Baekhyun will not decapitate him for this will not advance any aesthetic propaganda.

“Is it long?” he asks, lids narrowing. “Come on in.” He tips his head towards the hallway.

From what Baekhyun can see, it is a disgusting mess. Books on a shelf arranged neatly and obviously newly waxed floors and the sweet-smelling mist coming out of the bathroom, where he previously was, actually washing himself. So he knows what soap is. Supposedly.

“No,” he replies simply. “Won’t catch me in your den any time soon.”

Park scoffs. Gruff. Like a mutt. He tightens his arms over his chest. Now Baekhyun gets a whiff of the scent on his skin too.  It clogs his nose. “As you wish,” he says. “Not like I’d have any use for you anyway. Even if I claim ransom, who would want you back?”

Baekhyun peers at him. Long. His eyes look so empty. Through his pupils, he sees the one single lonely braincell he has swimming in a pool of vacuousness, unaware of its own fatuity. How sad.

“This game is for another time,” Baekhyun says. He stops, for this commentary alone he’s already backtracking, he doesn’t need this lamebrained clump of burnt spinach. He  _ doesn’t _ . But he will not survive Jongdae and Kyungsoo’s massacre if he backs down. “Now I am here to tell you that we’re doing it.”

Silence. Actual silence. It’s far away from the main road. Baekhyun’s ears ring.

Then Park bursts into laughter. “Doing what? You said you didn’t want to come in.”

“I’m afraid there’s no soap for the kind of dirty you are,” Baekhyun utters. His eyes are also very big. Enough material to even make a third eye from them, and bolt it into the middle of his forehead. Given how clumsy he is, it will come in handy. “I’ll contact you for details,” he says, and with that, finally, he turns on his toes and marches out.

“We’re doing it,” Park shouts after him, and through the timber taps, Baekhyun juts out his tongue at him, unseen.

  
  


S o the thing with Park is that he is a monstrosity of a humanoid. If he could even be called that.

His figure is unbecomingly wide and stretched, whilst skewed, resemblant of a lamppost stoned to death. The malodour of his flesh and his clothing is astringent, alcohols of centenarian body fluids left to procreate. His eyes bloated, two suppurating, wilding pimples bolted into his skull, puss glossy on his lids. His nose sloped, nostrils gaping with fuzz and fury, spiderlets struggling to escape. His hair a dense rat of wiriness, embalmed with tallow and lice, fussily snaking about the fitful perimeter of his face. His chest is protuberant, broken from the rest of his torso and pushed forward, disowned, warping his gait. His mouth a herd of limey dentures and a decomposing bandeau of morose red. His hands are sausage bouquets topped with stubby plaques of rottenness, shrunk and coagulated. His voice and enunciation is that of a bedridden locomotive engine, congested and thundering with imbecility.

And then there is his feculent selfdom. Brusqueries and tardiness at the same time. There isn’t an ass his nose hasn’t been to, because he is so nosy he’s practically a giant walking nose, and he doesn’t cordon himself from any matter.

Baekhyun cannot accept the fact that Park belongs to the same species as him. There must be a system error, for his eyeballs physically recoil whenever they settle on him. His entity is of such harrowing sight that it would have been better if his father wiped him on the curtain.

But despite all of this, Baekhyun does not hate Park (as Kyungsoo and Jongdae keep insisting). Baekhyun doesn’t hate anyone, and anything. Hate is for the ones at the bottom of the foodchain. 

Baekhyun doesn’t hate Park, because he doesn’t have the time, or resources, or stupidity to hate Park. He’s simply _too_ _employed_ for that. It would only be the endeavour of a monkeying simpleton.

In the morning, Baekhyun receives a letter in his mailbox. Baekhyun picks it up and turns it around. 

It is from Park, telling him that he is expected at their headquarters this evening at five to discuss the particularities of their alliance. Fancy much wording there, Park, Baekhyun rolls his eyes. 

Baekhyun puts the letter down.

He said  _ he _ will settle a meeting for the details. Not Park. How dare he go against Baekhyun’s word.

“You little weeping anal wart,” Baekhyun mutters under his breath, because, okay, yeah, maybe Baekhyun hates the fuck out of Park.

 

Baekhyun dreads that meeting for the whole day. He even tried to drag out his work in hopes of not finishing it on time. But Baekhyun is too efficient to be good at being inefficient, and all his due assignments are completed and filed away almost too early. 

Doesn’t mean Jongdae doesn’t have to physically pull him out of his chair and drag him out. 

Thereupon, Baekhyun, with his smols in tow, and Park, with his (alleged) tols in tow, are finally about to have the faceoff of the century.

“I don’t think it’s spelled like that,” Jongdae leans in to whisper.

“This isn’t written text, Jongdae, shut up,” Baekhyun answers, finding himself, yet again, staring at one of Park’s doors. Cracked wood all over again, complete with the splinters around the handle. There’s a pattern here.

“Why are we just standing here?” Kyungsoo sighs. He didn’t even ask. He just sighed, insouciant. He looks at the sign on the door - working hours: none. That explains some things.

“It’s not late enough yet,” Baekhyun responds.

“It’s ten past five.” Kyungsoo’s wrist watch has a particular, harmonic ticking that Baekhyun adores. Well, he detests it now.

“Ten is not enough.”

“It is enough,” Kyungsoo says, and opens the door. The bell above tings and Baekhyun is not about to let him be in the enemy’s lair all by himself so he follows promptly, stepping into pandemonium.

 

Kim Jongin in is tall.

Oh Sehun is taller.

Park is the tallest.

And also the hideousest.

The other two are decent. They’re similar enough to seem spat out by the same loins, but dissimilar enough to have individuality. But by their tie to Park, Baekhyun cannot assume innocence of barbarity.

Baekhyun has seen them before, but not like this, hurrying around them to serve them  _ tea _ after sitting them down. Horrible tea. Awful. Chamomile. 

Kyungsoo wants honey. Sehun puts a glass jar in front of him, asks how many teaspoonufulls he wants – half – and stirs it in, before pushing it in front of him, with a  _ smile _ . Jongin is also smiling. What flimflam is this. Baekhyun is on alert, his brows ruffled.

They all have tea now. And sitting face to face. Of course, this is how they should have a  _ face _ off. Through rather, they should be having a face  _ on _ .

Park is sitting between them. He has a necktie on. The pattern on it looks like a festival of choleric larvae. But tastelessness is not a crime. Yet. 

“The purpose of this gathering is to establish the terms and conditions of our unification, as to minimize disaccord and ensure a successful operation,” Baekhyun intones, looking at his cuticles. He doesn’t even know which part of his finger is the cuticle, but he feels like he should be doing this. Also, he really didn’t practice this line beforehand. Such eloquence just comes to him au naturel. Be amazed.  

He gazes up, only to meet Park’s blank stare. “Duuuuh,” he drawls. 

Does he know how to not be awful, good god. “Proceeding,” Baekhyun says, overruling this whole idleness. He doesn’t have the whole evening to waste on this – he has to go home and have his aromatic footbath for he is wearing new loafers that haven’t taken a liking on his feet yet. Baekhyun doesn’t fancy hurty feet. 

He takes out the small notebook in his pocket, where he has penned the most important points that need settlement. Jongin puts a piece of paper and a fountain pen on the table. 

Top of the list is who gets the story? Their discoveries will be published, perhaps in a couple of instalments, and it would be most sensible if the whole saga belonged to just one of them, but that they have no chance compromising on. Oh hell no. 

“Both of us,” Park says, through his teeth. None of them like this, it’s just half the fame, half the profits, half the everything. 

“But it could have its strategic merit,” Kyungsoo says. “It would seem like the culprit doesn’t have just one attacker, and that will make us safer.”

“Could sell bits to other newspapers as well,” Sehun adds. “So they can’t pinpoint.”

This kid ain’t dumb. Maybe Baekhyun will consider scouting him. 

Next on is about their assets. The Blazing Moon doesn’t work with the exact same apparatus as The Clandestines, because they deliver different kinds of columns – they have one of arts and crafts, where they teach useless shit like how to papier-mâché your own mousepad, as if those have been invented yet – but they do also have competent underlings. Baekhyun has a few people, who are not quite there in terms of any particular skill, but can be puppeteer into any entourage. 

“We do,” Sehun says. He recalls one of their stories, from a couple of years ago, all the way from Pyeongchang when they exposed an entire rig of illegal gold mining, gotten over the sea without tax. 

Kyungsoo is good at disguise. Despite his facial features being, separately, so striking, he can blend in easily. 

“What are you good at?” Jongin asks Jongdae in a low little voice.

“Any and everything you’re not,” he replies. That’s his man, because it’s true. Jongdae knows how to do everything without ever having done it before. He’s a bitch, but a highly skilled one.

The conclusion of it all is that they should not be working independent of each other. Should not keep any new piece of information hidden, nor decide its use without consulting each other, and that they should prioritize Park Daehwi’s judgment above their own. 

Also, Park can’t tell him what to do. And Baekhyun can’t tell him what to do. This one might be difficult because just as they were writing this out, Park already made a few formatting mistakes that Baekhyun wanted to nuke him over. 

They end up filling four pages, at the bottom, signed by all of them.  

They rise from the table, lower their heads in the smallest bow that could be qualified as such, and disperse. 

  
  
  
  


They’re seen to the door, and a few minutes into their walk back, Jongdae says, “The décor was really nice.”

“Your firing notice is even nicer,” Baekhyun grumbles, walking fast on his hurty feet. 

  
  


It’s morning. Today, Baekhyun has to: clean the woollen rug in his room, Jongdae spilled red wine on it, because he couldn’t figure out the geometrics of using a wine glass with a stem. Baekhyun can’t blame him.

And then work. Deciding what’s in for the literature column – Baekhyun will  _ not _ be the one looking for a school kid this time too. And the artisan. Some jewellery designer schooled in in Europe.

That is, if this was a normal morning. 

But it’s  _ not. _ Because now they have a mission, which means all the other things are put aside until this is finished.

As per their promise to the mayor, they’ll have to contact Park Daehwi for the details, including the ones undisclosed at the initial meeting, as a good chunk of it was kept away in case they didn’t end up agreeing to do it. But they did. 

Baekhyun doesn’t like this formulation at all. All this they they they they. Not just him. But they. Because he’s not alone. He sips his morning over-steeped tea with a grimace.

He could wait until Park contacts him, but why would Baekhyun dillydally around for a chewed tarantula slut, but also, why must he be the one to take him by the ear and drag them to the meeting that isn’t even set up yet. Baekhyun would hate being bossed around, whilst he also detests the thought of being the one to boss Park. This is the hard problem of boss-ness, whose philosophical numbles are too intricate to be preoccupied with at such an early hour.

Baekhyun sips the rest of his tea. Slowly. Very slowly. 

But what if, though they have just signed a contract, Park went behind his back, like the sneaky worm slurpper he is, and already started it, made plans, met people, solved it, stole all his promised money, all the potential stardom—

Baekhyun puts the cup down, curses, phones Park and demands his presence in front of the Supreme Court in no more than three quarters of an hour.

  
  


Supreme really is coming out with everything these days, even courts, which, in retrospect seems the following step after a branded brick, Baekhyun ponders, pacing in front of the building back and forth, because of course Park is late.

Mentioning this whole thing is, essentially, needless, but Baekhyun thinks it is important to document each and every little annoyance Park brings him. Currently, he is wasting his time. But then again, all interactions with him thus far have been a waste of time.

At last, he arrives, on his bike, hair flailing about, his collar unbuttoned, and this manic, concerning smiley glower on his twatwaffle face.

“What’s your excuse?” Baekhyun questions as he’s putting the bike away.

“I was exactly as late as you were last night,” Park throws over his shoulder, eyebrow pinched, as he struts inside.

Baekhyun stares in disgust at his ambling figure, at the two concave globules of his derriere, aslant and testicular in their indwelling and texture. That’s a plateful of currants Baekhyun would most certainly refuse. He sighs, then goes after him.

  
  
  


The judge was absolutely ecstatic about their assent. Baekhyun wasn’t anticipating this level of gratitude from him – the broad, broken-toothed smile, and the clap. Is he really such hot shit? His ego is yet again purring. 

But so was Park’s, and Baekhyun chooses to ignore that. 

They sign an agreement with him too, vowing to not disclose anything to the public that hasn’t been approved by him, nor to hide anything, nor fabricate. 

There is a deep insight on the whole issue now, or as deep as it could be, for if they truly had it good, their services wouldn’t be needed. But in short: it’s real nasty. Like really really nasty. And risky. 

But so  _ fun _ . 

And Baekhyun could use some fun, this has been dragging on for too long already. He can’t wait to solve this. Also, as an individual belonging to the apolitical class, this got him fired up pretty damn hard, because this is the kind of abuse that goes against any democratic principles. 

They leave, plans newly made. The sun is high in the sky. It hurts his eyes. It hurts his eyes less than looking at Park though. 

“See ya soon,” he says, climbing on his bicycle, his bell tinkling. 

Baekhyun sighs. Which he also did in the paragraph above. He foresees even more sighing from now on.

  
  
  
  


Back at the agency, Kyungsoo and Jongdae are arm wrestling. They’re equally weak, and their round can last for hours. Baekhyun has never lost to any of them – his biceps are unbeatable. 

It is used as the game of order, who gets to write that, who goes to talk to the forensic examiner – for one of those darker days and not surprisingly he is a man less than pleasant to converse with – who takes the trash out, who runs to the printing house to deliver new edits.

“What’s the tea?” asks Baekhyun, pulling a chair over to watch their match. He swings to the side to get a good angle and – seems like Kyungsoo has the upper hand, literally, which means Jongdae will win because Kyungsoo has shit stamina. But only at  _ this _ , he insisted on amending, as though anyone will try to insult his dick game through that.

“No tea,” Jongdae replies, followed by Kyungsoo with, “Just waiting for you.”

Baekhyun, being the boss, has to do his bossy duty and be outraged at the fact that they’re slacking on a workday, even though there is technically nothing to do. So he is outraged for two seconds, then claps his hands and helps put Kyungsoo’s arm down. “Bring out the board.”

  
  
  
  


First of all, they have to dig around for the intelligence they already have. The club in question is the Sky Lounge. Which Baekhyun went to a few times a while ago, before it became so picky and exclusive, and reaped plenty of  _ succulent _ stories. Then the clientele got so exquisite that Baekhyun had trouble getting in again.

Now that he has found out that some profoundly disturbing illegal activities are taking place there, he is not surprised – what could be expected from a bar of such pretentiousness but that serves a mediocre martini.  It seems the perfect environment for it, a place of power and depravity to breed the worst of the worst. A creche for the nasty. Drugs, weapons, and likely, human trafficking. Basically a cesspool of all the evils there can be, lead and perpetuated by socialites of different backgrounds and notoriety.

The moment the judge spoke a few names, Baekhyun got exactly why it was a hard one to crack, why it could go on for years unbothered. If it got out, the noise this will generate will be deafening, and this is exactly what he wants. Can’t be swept under the rug anymore if there’s no more rug.

Thus far, they know about a couple of actors and actresses, the executive of an electronics company, a governor, and a few affiliates of the prime minister, and potentially someone even bigger. The thing is that they don’t know exactly  _ who _ it is that rules this operation, because it is not the owner, who, while complicit in great capacity, is not the one calling the shots and garnering the most profit (of which the monetary one is the weakest). He is a key pawn, but his incrimination alone won’t get to the root of it all. At most, it will be but a ripple.

Part of it is due to the exclusivity of the establishment, which means few witnesses, and those that do frequent it are either the profiteers or the victims, and neither side is willing to speak up. So they need explicit, irrefutable evidence, surprising all of these big people in the act.

It’s an alembicated atrocity of a case, and Baekhyun is ready to dive right into its suppurating innards. Which he does by first diving into their own archive, folders of profiles and pictures and titbits of information they have gathered over time. It’s not everyone, but they do have plenty. Especially on the figures better known to the public eye. The actors and the singers, and then one of the politicians, who was a candidate for presidency a few years back, infamous for some promises that are being talked about to this day.

After demolishing the whole archive room – they’ll clean this disaster up later – it is time to build the web. Or a moodboard, as kids these days would call it. Pinning those pictures to a board Baekhyun improvised out of foam and cotton.

The confirmed suspects sit at the top, what known ties they have – an actor and a singer who used to be married, then divorced, then married, then divorced, a whole marital shitshow that became the laughingstock of the population, which means people do care about them. Then just names that have been given to him by the judge. Names Baekhyun doesn’t know, noted on blank white cards among the disordered maze.

When they’re done, the sun has set, and the lightbulb over their head keeps flickering. It will burn out soon. They take a few steps back and look at the whole board, arms crossed over their chests.

Kyungsoo clicks his tongue, in the same way some people snap their fingers. “Well, that’s barely anything,” he says.

Because after all the digging and linkages they made themselves, there are only five cards on the board.

Well.

He keeps staring, envisioning the board getting full of people and data until they figure out who the leader is and then gather the dirt on them too, and then the  _ success _ , the sweet, success. Baekhyun almost feels it in his mouth, which is a nice change from the under seasoned cold noodles they had for lunch, the cause of his garlic-y burps.

Jongdae uncrosses his arms. Then crosses them again. The bulb flickers. Then flickers again.

“I think,” he starts, the bulb flickers a third time. They hold their garlicky breaths. No fourth flicker comes. “They might have some things to fill in the gaps.”

At this point, it is more gaps than it is not-gaps. Which is concerning to say the least, but this doesn’t mean Baekhyun will readily accept this.

“I think,” Baekhyun counters. “We’re not that helpless.”

Finding the beef for a few names? Finding some associated persons? What’s hard about that? They’ve done this before. It’s  _ all _ they ever do. While Park is the apotheosis of a con. There’s no pro to him. There is nothing that he and his team can do that they can’t. Absolutely nothing. If anything, it would rather impede them, because the success of their publication thus far is massively attributed to how well they work together. Adding people now will only obstruct their workflow. So Baekhyun doesn’t see a single instant in this whole thing where he wants to involve that little bow-legged piece of fermented disappointment.

“What if they just  _ have _ it?” Kyungsoo asks, turning towards him. He’s close, and he doesn’t have the garlicky breath. Baekhyun is taken aback. “And we wouldn’t have to put in extra work to get information that could be already available to us when there is already a lot of work to do?”

His tone is acidic. And it’s not from the vinegar that was in the noodle sauce.

“He means to say get over yourself and cooperate with the Moons like we promised to do,” Jongdae chimes in.

“The moons?”

“It really doesn’t have a ring to it like ours does, does it,” Jongdae says. The Clandestines really does sound…so good. At least they have that going for them.

“And if I’m not mistaken,” Kyungsoo continues, ignoring their interim, “a few months ago they published a tax evasion scandal marginally involving one of the suspects.”

Baekhyun was about to accuse Kyungsoo of being their fan or something, but he also knows the case. Everyone knows the case because they did a damn great job at exposing it, not that Baekhyun would admit it.

“Yeah,” he mutters. The bulb flickers again and - it’s the last time. They’re in the dark now. RIP.

“Now go to Park, tell him everything we know thus far, and see what he’s got,” Kyungsoo says, turning around.

“Why aren’t we going together?” Baekhyun asks, frowning until he realizes he’s causing premature wrinkles for nothing, because Kyungsoo cannot see his expression in the dark. “It’s not just me and Park in this, it’s all of us.”

“Yeah, but who’s gonna clean the archive room, huh?” Jongdae says, patting his back. “You have it easy right now.”

Baekhyun has no retort to that, because true, because while Baekhyun is excellent at many,  _ many _ things, archiving is not one of them.

“Bring back a new lightbulb,” Kyungsoo shouts, walking away.

  
  


Baekhyun does a detour to get himself a drink. He doesn’t think he can stomach Park tonight without stomaching some alcohol first.

And he’s right there, at the bar, sticking out like a sore thumb. Though Baekhyun doesn’t know what’s so noteworthy about sore thumbs, as he would rather liken it to a gigantic zombified putrefying rat, or another image of equal horror and alarm. Baekhyun needs to have his drink and then he will think of something better.

The bar stool next to him is empty. Climbs onto it – not awkwardly, it’s not too tall. It’s really  _ not _ .

Park has a document in front of him, and a cocktail glass with a sugar rim. The liquid is of a flamboyant pink.

Baekhyun knows the bartender and the bartender knows Baekhyun – very few people are as valuable as bartenders, and Baekhyun has paid his eyes and ears handsomely thus far. Also, he knows what he wants, which is aged whiskey on the rocks. No pinkity drinkity for him.

After he takes the first sip, he also chews on an ice cube, going crunch crunch crunch in Park’s ear, who jumps, and gives him a dirty look. A very dirty look. Does he not wash his looks either, why is everything about him so dirty. He needs some look detergent, and perhaps some look softener. Hey, now  _ this _ is a business idea.

“What’s that?” Baekhyun asks, peering at his document. He read it because it is handwritten, perhaps by a chicken on shrooms or something, because it has no legibility whatsoever.

Park looks back at the page, adding one more line to the bottom of it. “Some dirt on someone.”

Like they don’t have an  _ oath _ to confess the truth and only the truth to each other. And this is a lie by omission. “On who?” Baekhyun presses.

“Jeon Juyeom,” Park utters at last.

“Hohoho,” Baekhyun exclaims, like Santa Claus, but more Sherlock. “This uneducated potato?” he asks, pulling out the deck of pictures he has stashed in his pocket, and picking out a frame.

Park’s eyes enlarge. “Shit, yeah.”

“I don’t have anything on him other than this,” Baekhyun says, nose buried into his whiskey, because this is basically begging for intel, and it’s  _ humiliating _ .

Park laughs. What a tractor. 

But by the end of the night, Park has named and provided pictures for all the gaps in Baekhyun’s planning, all while they ordered another round, and talked, and figured it out, and Baekhyun  _ didn’t _ get drunk, but he might’ve taken a sip of Park’s pink drink, and it was less abhorrent than anticipated, which is why he might’ve taken another sip, but we can’t be sure though because Baekhyun  _ wasn’t _ drunk.

He ambles home tipsy, but victorious, and when he enters, Kyungsoo and Jongdae are gone, and the archive room is in perfect order. Baekhyun notes down everything he smuggled from Park before he forgets under the light of a harem of candles, then he takes a few steps back and crosses his arms over his chest.

It looks like they’re going somewhere now.

Baekhyun smiles, waves goodbye to the board, and trots up the stairs to his bed. “I missed you too,” he tells the mattress, nuzzling into it, and rolling and rolling until he’s bedsheet kimbap and sleep is ready to eat him.

 

The next day is another digging day, gold digging day, because they are a breed of gold diggers too, but this time they took it to the library and to the secret registers hosted at the city hall, with the permission he requested from the judge in the morning. Park said something about how he can’t make it now, that he has other matters to see, and Baekhyun was about to hydraulic press him until the truth burst out of him, but he was promised if his investigation is fruitful, it will be shared with him.

They look through files and files again. Ages, other illicit records – including all the incidents that ever took place at the Sky Lounge, the people involved, the punishments doled out, the ones, who, for some reason, escaped any sort of sanction, with obvious lacunas in the reports. It hasn’t always been clean, but that’s like most clubs. They aren’t churches. They’re clubs.

At night time, they leave with a thicker than thick, which means  _ thicc _ stack of brand-new intel. Baekhyun’s head is kind of spinning tying it all together, which is why the moment he stepped out of the city hall, he stopped thinking about it entirely. 

They walk home, hand in hand in hand. It’s Friday night. Some inns are open. It’s jolly. They’re singing some folk songs as they go, the streetlamps alighting in their wake.

“We’re, like, a vocal powerhouse,” Kyungsoo says when they still in front of his house. It has a cute picket fence and flowers outside. He also has a swing. It’s lovely.

“We’re a powerhouse of many things,” Jongdae says, which means a three-way high five, which is always a wreck of bruised fingers, but not any less lovesome.

“Do you think it will go well?” Kyungsoo asks, bending to pick a few weeds from between his pansies.

“I know it will go well.”

Kyungsoo smiles. A heart. And Jongdae smiles. Another heart. And Baekhyun smiles. A rectangle.

  
  


Three days is enough bumbling through papers, it’s time that they take some  _ actual _ action. The case is so hot, they really cannot be loitering about any longer.

Early on, Kyungsoo sent an invite for the Moons to come over. Baekhyun almost cleaned his desk, but why would he, he’s not trying to impress anyone, and if a busy desk is a sign of a busy person, an empty desk if a sign of what? Exactly.

Jongdae might be coming down with the flu today, which means he gets into this metaphysical daze peppered with a lot of sniffling. “They’re the sky, and we’re the hell,” he says, patting his forehead again with the cold compress Baekhyun provided him. At this point, it is more to shoo away the potential sickness, because, as he always said, he wants to be influential, not  _ influenzial _ .

“We’re not  _ that _ short,” Kyungsoo says, sounding constipated because he is constipated, as he’s rearranging the pictures on the board so they’re straight, parallel to the edges, and perpendicular to each other. He’s always anal about things like these, but now he’s extra anal.

Jongdae rolls his eyes, sickly-ly, which means a half circle, but it is still armed with the exasperation of a full circle.  “Alongside them, we’re considered in the negatives,” he says, going along with Kyungsoo instead of saying it wasn’t about a height thing, it was the whole Moon thing, because the moon is in the  _ sky _ , dumbass.

“In Celsius?” Kyungsoo asks. He adjusts a picture. Then adjusts it again.

Baekhyun, from where he is perched on his desk, sighs expelling the smoke of the cigar he’s pretending he’s smoking. “In decalitres.”

“Oh, thank lord,” Jongdae says, taking off the rag and give it a good shake, then putting it back on his forehead.

This is all a distraction from the fact that they’re  _ waiting _ . Waiting is not a verb. Waiting is not doing anything. Baekhyun is offended, more than mildly, because they’re basically on standby. For Park. Because of Park.

Kyungsoo goes to the bathroom two more times – unsuccessful, each time - Jongdae says a couple more existential concerns – at what point does bread become toast – we don’t even eat toast here, Jongdae, yeah but I read it causes cancer, now this could be an article – and Baekhyun smokes three more imaginary cigars before they fucking _show_ _up_.

And at least they’re not empty handed, because the first thing Sehun does is slide an envelope over to Baekhyun. In silence. Baekhyun opens it, and he looks at the contents. It’s money. Baekhyun is about to ask what’s the meaning of this trickery before – “They’re fake.”

He can tell by the aspect of the paper. The design is virtually identical, but something about the texture is different, a bit rugose and rigid, barely detectible, but Baekhyun has studied this for an article, spent a lot of time at the banknote printing factory around the time there was noise around a currency change. And as he tilts it, he sees it has a peculiar gloss, linear, instead of shattered. It’s simply a much higher quality than an original.

“This is what Ji Myeongsu is paying his consummation with,” Park says, hopping his ass on Kyungsoo’s desk. Baekhyun holds his breath, expecting a freak out, but Kyungsoo is more interested in snatching the envelope from him and feeling the banknotes himself.

Ji Myeongsu is former head of the Seoul Police. While he abdicated a while ago because of a leg injury, he has even more influence than he did before he stepped down, because now all the people in charge are his puppets. And he is a VIP at the Sky Lounge.

“How’d you get this?” Baekhyun asks, because getting to do any sort of transaction with him must not be easy, unless it was with an intermediary.  

“Sold him some myrrh,” Park says.

Oh. Oh that’s. Interesting. Regarding the religious leaning of the population and the government, and how they’re trying to homogenize faith, that’s a token of a western faith, which is very, very hard to procure on their land. And a man like Ji Myeongsu is leaning that way? Curious.

“And where did  _ you _ get it from?”

Park laughs. “You think that’s hard to fake.” 

Jongin puts his head on Park’s shoulder. “I made it,” he blinks,  _ proudly _ .

“And I christened it,” Sehun adds, from farther away, because he is appraising their board. “This is some neat work,” he then comments.

Kyungsoo puts the envelope into the tray on Baekhyun’s desk – to be photographed – and moves towards it. “Thanks,” he says.

Baekhyun has  _ great _ vision, and he has no reason to doubt it, but he does think he must’ve mis-seen that little jerk Sehun did the moment Kyungsoo stood into his personal space.

“Daehwi didn’t say anything about this,” Park continues, looking at him. Just Daehwi. Because there’s no kind of seniority between them, huh. Park wouldn’t know respect even if it slapped him in the face with a lactating crab. “But it seems a lot of money laundering is going on there, and it’s with counterfeits.”

The other kind of laundering is cute, please wash your clothes people, but the money kind, not so nice, and especially commixed with forgery. Then technically the easiest way to become rich is to DIY money, and Baekhyun is not all that surprised that they have taken this route. Judging by how they turned out, they didn’t follow a five-minute crafts tutorial for it.

“You got any evidence on it?” This is the first of the many underhand deeds, and Baekhyun is already seeing the scale of it all. Because they have to be produced. Somewhere. Might be out of the country, but this means there’s already a group, and factory for this. And this means they could have something to force them – loansharking, debt, blackmail, most likely - power is power, and a human is just 70 kilograms or so of meat and fragility.

Park grimaces, which is just his spotty banana looking lips pulling to a side, then the other, a joyless seesaw motion. “Couldn’t,” he says. “But if I remember correctly, I’m not in this alone. Could get some use out of you.”

“Ha,” Baekhyun intones immediately. “So it is only your incompetence that brought you to me.”

“Unlike you, I can tell when a job is outside my skills,” he replies, calm.

He’s like, heavy petting Baekhyun’s self-pride, and Baekhyun didn’t consent to this, this is non-consensual ego stimulation. He’s not about to let any of that show on his face though.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Baekhyun mutters, hopping off the desk, and going to where the rest are gathered. Jongdae is looking sort of manic trying to explain a corner of the board, his tone slimy, as he gesticulates with one hand and holds the compress to his forehead with the other. Kyungsoo’s constipated face got constipated-er, however, he is focused on detailing the profile of the one surprisingly non-descript client who is in and out of the club without a fuss.

Park  _ claps _ , like a  _ heathen _ (when Baekhyun claps, it is with  _ dignity _ , and  _ grace _ , and that’s not hypocritical  _ at all).  _ “I have thought of a way for us to do this,” he says, taking a paper off Jongdae’s desk, turning it over, and clicking the pen he takes from his pocket, he draws two little circles. Why is everything he does akin to vandalism, Baekhyun winces.

He keeps on scribbling as he talks. Jongin and Sehun join in as well, with questions, to which Kyungsoo and Jongdae can provide answers, and vice versa. Okay, maybe they can conduct a dialogue, because bit by bit, Baekhyun understands what this tactic is getting at, and whilst it is long – spread over days and events and layers of disguise – it might just bring them the material they need.

Baekhyun also discovers that Sehun and Jongin are…companionable. Jongin giggles a lot. Hehehehehehehehehe. A fly? Giggle. A breeze? Giggle giggle giggle. He’s so precious, Baekhyun could pawn him off to a jewellery parlour for a good few grand. Not that Baekhyun is into that sort of business, this is to express the fact that Jongin might just be the most adorable person Baekhyun has ever seen.  

Sehun also has his own charm, a bit broody, but also mushy, and discoursing with the flattest witticism.

However, Park is still as enchanting as a homeless piece of cow manure.

But Baekhyun sees this working out. Kyungsoo finally makes  _ the _ successful trip to the bathroom – Baekhyun congratulates him - after which he is ready to accompany them. Jongdae will stay behind, because his illness seems to have progressed. Not a bad thing, given the comorbid thoughtfulness might get them some interesting theories.

Baekhyun changes – expensive-looking clothing, a bit of hair gel, fake glasses – and inserts his best camera into the pocket on the inside of his jacket. Jongin and Sehun are already in costume – which means rowdy youngsters lusting over a good night out. Park is playing a dude. Just a dude. An appearance and carriage that wouldn’t attract a second look, wouldn’t latch onto any memory. This is very easy for him, given that he has like zero fashion sense.

With that, they’re ready to go.

  
  
  
  


Oasis is a duplicate club, sort of, and resides in the belly of the city. It is more for the outcasts, the rejects, where the second-tier patrons decided to invent their own top-tier location. 

Ji Myeongsu’s son owns the place. It frankly looks nicer than the Sky Lounge, but the service is appalling. This is what happens when business is run through nepotism. What they do find is that the place is swarming with counterfeits, which makes it a perfect spot for spreading out the capital, for it is not an isolated population that has access to it. Baekhyun orders what he usually orders, changing his timbre to go deep, staccato, and in exchange for his bill he gets counterfeit. It’s so easy.

But does the bartender know. Where is he getting it from. Either they’ve mixed them so that they can’t even tell them apart, or they have separate vaults.

Park drinks and drinks, supposedly, silent in the corner. Then he looks for the bathroom, pretends to be lost, asks some youngsters where the bathroom is, and they point him in the wrong direction.

He then alerts Baekhyun, who finds the stashes in a deposit, in beer crates, sacks of false money under the lid. He takes picture after picture, which is perfect, because in the background there are branded items of Oasis, their old signage left to rust there. 

While Baekhyun does this, Sehun and Jongin fight over drinks outside, as to alert all of the staff. Park is already out. 

They disperse from there, no goodbyes, Baekhyun going to the agency – not straight, but hailing a cab after walking in the opposite direction for a while. It’s better to cause confusion even if there could be none – and arriving just in time to tuck a seriously feverish Jongdae into his bed. He immediately takes care of the film, yawning, because it is late, and he stores it in the little safe in the darkroom. 

Then Baekhyun goes to bed, warning Jongdae’s germs not to get to him, and maybe it is nice to sleep with a person and not with his dolls for the first time in a while. 

  
  
  
  


There should be segues, downtime, so we get to know this Baekhyun a bit more, but there is no time for that. Once they’ve made the first move, they’ve ruffled some feathers, and they must push forward, and push fast. So there’s no time to describe his breakfast and how he was thinking of the case when he was washing his clothes and forgot to rinse them and hung them to dry full of detergent and they turned into soap chips on the line – and this doesn’t mean he is a moron, but it means that he is very focused on the matter at hand. Concluding: that this is what all the focus will be on. 

With copies of the pictures they took the other night already duplicated and stashed in another safe in one of their more remote agencies, they meet yet again. 

This time at The Blazing Moon office. Now that Baekhyun is stepping in with less animosity, it looks a bit better. Not good. But better. 

Park is just running in from the back. His truculent carriage, as if he has too many body parts to coordinate, makes him knock over a lamp. 

Sehun, emerging from a nook, bursts into laughter, which sounds more or less like an ovulating donkey, and Baekhyun raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, hi, Hyung,” Jongin says, emerging from the same cranny, smile boundless on his face. He wraps himself around Sehun’s shoulders, who hasn’t stopped guffawing. “He’s still drunk from last night.”

“Because I’m BABY,” Sehun shouts, in capitals, and Baekhyun’s ears ring. Ding dong ring diggi ding diggi ding. That level. 

“You’re very baby, yes yes yes,” Jongin shushes him, guiding him to his desk, which is labelled Oh Sehun on a glossy, wooden plaque. They should implement that too. It looks pretty. Professional. 

Jongin pats Sehun’s head. “Watcha got for us, Hyung? I’m so curious!” Jongin asks him then, eyes…luminous. Is this kid an angel, can he tone it down with the angelism, Baekhyun is starting to get pissed. And he called him Hyung  _ again _ . 

Jongdae, one nostril stuffed with a cotton joint to dam the nasal discharge snatches the folder from his hand. “Yeah, we do,” he says in Baekhyun’s stead. Before it gets to Jongin, Park intercepts it with another snatch. Sehun laughs, because that’s just what he’s good for right now. 

“This is neat,” Park says, pulling the pictures out and breezing through them. He’s looking too fast. He should be  _ admiring _ them. Baekhyun did a splendid job with the composition and lighting adjustments. But of course, Park doesn’t have the eye for something like this. “A promising start.”

“You  _ think _ ?” Baekhyun deadpans. 

“They’re great, Hyung!” Jongin chirp, looking through the shots as well. His eyes shimmer. This kid is not good for Baekhyun’s heart.

“Thanks,” Baekhyun says, gaze immediately running towards Sehun, who just said, “But you’re so beautiful.”

And his eyes are on Kyungsoo.

On  _ Kyungsoo _ . 

And Kyungsoo is wearing his cheerless, wilted simper, which means that he’s feeling fantastic. 

“Are you flirting with me,” Kyungsoo asks Sehun, staring at him with his big, round eyes. Baekhyun nearly shivers. 

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“Um. Because I like you.” 

Baekhyun’s eyes widen. It’s too early for this. Baekhyun should’ve caught a few more of those sneaky stares they gave one another, and a bit more serious wooing situation, and it should’ve been really subtle and stretched out and Baekhyun should’ve been shocked to find out they’re into each other because thus far he pretended he didn’t see anything. There goes the secondary plot twist. 

“Oh. I thought you had standards.”

“I do.”

“Oh.”

“They’re about as tall as I am.”

“Oh.” Kyungsoo’s eyes go down, then up again. “Please flirt with me.” 

Why is he playing with the drunk kid like this, Baekhyun knows he can slaughter hearts. He desperately hopes Sehun will forget about all of this once sober.

“Relationships between employees are prohibited,” Baekhyun says.

“But I’m not your employee,” Sehun amends. He’s swaying in that chair like a leaf in the wind. A drunken leaf in drunken wind. 

But here they have business to talk about. 

Baekhyun would choose not to be in Park’s presence and associated spaghetti goblins if he didn’t have to, so proceeding with what they have, they present. 

Now this is but a layer on this cake (Baekhyun would also like some cake). Going into the Sky Lounge now is not quite needed, given there are plenty of other things to find in the vicinity, one of which being the ex-owner of Oasis. Can’t possibly have all this fake shit going on under his nose and not know about it. He is known to be a bitter one after he was bought (perhaps more or less forcefully), and now he’s going in and out of the Sky Lounge trying to upkeep his reputation. 

From a file, Park brings out a series of pictures of him in the company of some women. A particular woman attracts his attention, because he knows her to be staff at the Sky Lounge, something in the kitchen. And in another picture, he sees them in a decidedly intimate posture.

The thing is that Baekhyun knows who his wife is. And he’s cheating on that gem of a woman with the pineapple cutter. “Oh my god,” Baekhyun gasps. “We’re going after this spongy doorknob as soon as possible.”

  
  
  


Baekhyun does a bit of writing before bed. Where to massage in case you have a headache. The temples. The nape. The yawn. Not the yawn. Baekhyun, don’t yawn. But he yawns, and tries to write some more until he yawns again.

He calls it a night, and pads to his unmade bed to snuggle up with his little hand puppets. They’re old, leftover from a puppet show Baekhyun was in when he was in toddlerhood. Sometimes Baekhyun makes them talk in their pointy, willowy voices. They ask him how he’s doing, and he asks them back. Baekhyun listens to the puppet complain of loneliness, of being left in the room by themselves all day, and they miss him a lot. 

He puts them down. Is he lonely? Would he like to hear this? Would he like to be missed?

He shakes his head. No use thinking about this. 

He picks them up again. “Good night,” says Bobochu. 

“Oh my god, you can talk,” Baekhyun gasps at his own hand.

Kyung giggles. Baekhyun giggles. They all giggle. It’s just Baekhyun and his two hands, and somehow the apartment feels full, his bed feels full, his heart feels full. 

“Good night,” Baekhyun tells them. 

He slides them off his hands, carefully tucking them in their place on the other side of the bed, then turns around, tucks the sheet under his neck, and sleeps. 

  
  
  
  


Kidnap (verb) = to seize and detain or carry away by unlawful force or fraud and often with a demand for ransom.

So when Baekhyun gets in talk with this Kangcheol dude and asks him this and that to get to know his whereabouts, offers him a cigar, and smooth talks him into confirming that he indeed seems to know something, only to guide him towards a dark corner where Park immediately ambushes him with a rope, Baekhyun stuffing his mouth with his handkerchief (the pretty one he embroidered himself, now ruined unfortunately) and dragging him to the car Jongin parked right at the end of the alley, and holding him hostage between them, it’s not really a kidnapping because they are doing it in the name of law, so it is not unlawful, and they barely used any force because this guy is soft as a polenta bowl, and they also don’t need any ransom from his broke ass. 

So, it’s not a kidnapping. Really. They aren’t the bad guys here. 

They drive to an abandoned barn. Well, not very abandoned, Baekhyun saw at least a dozen rats, but other than that, abandoned. Park tries to drag him out by himself. He’s basically a fillet of a human and Park is currently struggling with him like a beached spermatozoon on the dry of an everlasting ocean of buffoonery. Baekhyun is so unimpressed that he is impressed at how unimpressed he is. Then Jongin comes to his rescue and manages to take the log out. 

Baekhyun takes the rest of the ropes out from the back – beautifully coiled by Jongdae for him, not a single tangle, and as Park holds a thrashing Kangcheol to one of the beams, Baekhyun knots him down. There is decay on it, as well as a lot of dust. “Does this feel sturdy to you?” Baekhyun questions through his teeth, looping the rope around his hands higher and higher, so there’s no wrist movement. “You fancy dying under a collapsing barn?” More thrashing. And saliva spilling out of his mouth. Baekhyun feels so bad for his poor, cherished handkerchief. 

He’s well secured onto the beam now. Baekhyun can make some sick knots, really. He will only escape if he takes the beam with him, which is not impossible in fact, so they should move fast with this. 

Park stares at him, quite dumbly, if Baekhyun might add. 

“So you could, potentially, knot me like that too.”

“This is not that kind of AU,” Baekhyun grumbles, reaching into his pocket for his camera. He snaps one picture of Kangcheol’s face, just because it’s funny, to add it to his personal collection, and will not copy it because this is something that can bite them back, because yeah okay, this can take only so much sugarcoating, this is illegal as fuck. 

When Jongin is ready to record, Park starts. 

“Motherfucker you cheated?” he shouts. “You fucking walnut!” 

“How dare you cheat on Mrs. Lee, you undercooked meatloaf?!” Because while this era is more permissive of this sort of betrayal, the fact that the sufferer is someone they know and respect in the industry, it makes it worse that this guy cheated on her. She deserves the world. She helped both of them with publishing so many times, and has always given credit whenever she allowed any sort of spin off-ing of their stories, a literal journalistic archangel and a sweetheart and this guy cheated on her?

“You don’t deserve food.”

“Nor air.”

It is she who has status, while he has nothing on his name now. “You think it goes ‘A woman without her man, is nothing’,” Baekhyun says. “But it is ‘A woman, without her, man is nothing’.” 

Baekhyun read that somewhere, and the idea of it was the power of punctuation, and since he used important eye power to see it, he might as well make use of it. 

Park is frowning at him. “Yeah!” he concludes flatly. 

They morale his ass until they run out of curses. This is about principle, and it is imperative that the vomit their anger on him collectively. They poke him with hay, and guilt trip him, and guilt punch him, and guilt tickle him, and guilt knee him in the balls and guilt going for the kidneys (not very hard though, just enough to demonstrate that they could do it harder). 

Then he realizes he’s face to face with Park as they aggressed him. It was a spit-fest of cusses and foaming mouths. Baekhyun thinks he’s kind of won this. He really is a curse master compared to Park, who can only conjugate the word ‘fuck’ in a million ways. 

A brief, incommodious silence later, they pull away and compose themselves because it’s about time they stop this chiding and get on with their business.  

“You might be a deluded inbred mealworm, but at least you’re a deluded inbred mealworm with values,” Baekhyun says, patting down the bits of hay that have stuck to his blazer. Bad day to wear dark blue. And an even worse day to find out that Park has a bit of spine, because it doesn’t become him at all. 

“Good to know,” Park crows.  

Baekhyun takes out the handkerchief from Kangcheol’s mouth out with chopsticks improvised from two twigs laying around, because as much as he loved that handkerchief, it is fully soaked with saliva and he’s  _ not _ touching it with his bare hands. Now they’re ready to start the extraction process. 

Soon it’s clear that Park is very bad at asking questions, as he is at everything, and the guy isn’t quite spilling. Well he is spilling, but mostly saliva instead of what they need. 

Baekhyun lets him be until he throws a helpless look to Jongin, who is too kind of a soul to participate in this activity. Then that look is moved onto Baekhyun. 

He has a trick up his sleeve: antagonization. This guy has a lot of hatred and bitterness in him. Baekhyun begins lamenting, sympathising with him, “And he stole it from you just like that? Oh my, that’s such a pity. You didn’t deserve that. You were once so big, and could’ve been even bigger. Oasis has all the chances of overtaking the Sky Lounge now. Why did he have to do this to you, so, so sad,” Baekhyun rambles, heartfelt, unshed tears shining in his eyes. Sentence by sentence, Kangcheol’s resolve dissolves (that has such a bad ring to it, Baekhyun winces), his irises furibund. 

Rousing anger in a person who is halfway convinced they’ll be murdered is the way to go. 

But he’s still not saying anything. 

“You know,” Park starts, “other than questions, I also have this.” And with that he takes out a pocketknife. A big one. Baekhyun jumps, just a little, because where did that come from, and why does it look so comfortable in his hand. And his eyes are. Devilish. And dark, very dark, and it’s not because it’s very dark in here, this is another kin of darkness entirely. 

Baekhyun might’ve felt the tiniest little shiver going down his spine.

It seems though that it causes a whole tsunami of a shiver in Kangcheol though, and from halfway convinced he’ll be murdered, he passed into  _ fully _ convinced that he’ll be murdered, which is how the second Park flicks the blade towards him, he begins saying it  _ all _ . 

They get names, locations, details of the operation, who does what, at what time. He’s a spiteful goldmine. “After all I did for him,” he spits. There’s a lot of spit going on there. “Lee Minhyo!” he shouts. Jongin hastily notes that down too. “He doesn't like anyone being too close or too good, which is why he tolerates having me around, that piece of shit.”

Baekhyun tuts encouraging at him. “Vent it out, vent it all out,” he says. Park is still holding that damn knife, though the darkness is gone, and he looks just as frightened holding it as Kangcheol is frightened being threatened with it. 

He coughs up the last bits of info stocked in him, after which Park lowers the knife and pockets it. He looks relieved. 

“What are you going to do with this?” Kangcheol asks, shaking. Okay, they are here just to do their job, not to traumatize the poor man for life.  

“Us? Nothing. The law will do what it has to do,” Baekhyun replies. 

“And…and me?”

Park flips him on the forehead. “The adultery, dude, remember that?”

“We’ll let Mrs. Lee decide on that.” Baekhyun says. 

“We alerted someone you know of this location, let’s hope they get here before the rats eat you.”

Thusly, their business here is done, and embark in the car, Park driving as Baekhyun and Jongin sit in the back, looking over his notes. He’s a fast writer while maintaining such neat handwriting. With all these abbreviations on the side. It’s cute. Of course, they also have recordings, but the notes are also important, because Jongin put ink on Kangcheol’s finger and stamped the paper. It’s not a falsified confession if he said all of this himself. 

Baekhyun smiles. This could’ve gone a lot worse. 

  
  
  
  


It’s movie night.

Kyungsoo made rose jam with roses from his garden. Rose! Jam! Baekhyun has never tasted a more superb delicacy in his life. 

They all have their own little jar and they’re eating it by the teaspoonful as the movie rolls. Baekhyun made a few attempts to interrogate him about The Sehun Situation because there is whole Sehun Situation taking place.

All Kyungsoo says is, “He’s cute,” before he goes back to deepthroating his teaspoon. 

First of all, Baekhyun taken aback because he was supposed to be the Main Gay of the group, and now this is distracting from his gay glory, and second of all, he is so nonchalant about it. Baekhyun doesn’t know much about the whereabouts of his love life, but he assumed he assumed it takes a lot, and Baekhyun means  _ a lot _ , to charm him in any way – hell, it took about two years for him to accept to work with Baekhyun officially after he used him as a source for college intel. And Sehun just? Came in? And wooed him? Just like that? It was that easy all along? 

It’s suspicious. And somewhere, somewhat hurtful as well. 

Or maybe Baekhyun is riddled with abandonment issues, but don’t @ him about it. 

“They’re really not so bad,” Jongdae mutters, metal clinking against glass. He’s not wearing trousers because why would he. “I like that.”

“They’re very bad,” Baekhyun counters, mouth full. Of roses. So what if it’s gone smoothly thus far, it doesn’t mean Baekhyun thinks of Park in any warmer of a light. Baekhyun is not Kyungsoo, he’s not that easy. “Save for Jongin,” Baekhyun amends, because Baekhyun likes Jongin. 

“They aren’t,” Kyungsoo tsks. “We should’ve collabed sooner.” 

That complete sack of unwashed grapes is letting his goblins go after Baekhyun’s men, huh? The nerve. 

“Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun says, calmly. “I can love you better than he ever will.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Nope.”

Baekhyun just sniffles into his rose jam. 

  
  
  
  


There has been gathered enough to present to the judge. He looks over all evidence carefully, thoughtfully. He gets especially excited over the money, which is new to him. In essence, it is not enough to condemn anyone, but it enough for a first publishing. 

Park talks too much throughout this meeting though. Baekhyun barely managed to get a word in. He can’t stop recounting all of the events in great detail, this enormous smile on his fuckface, and all those gesticulations and re-enactments. This isn’t a circus, Park, tone down this nonsense. 

But the way he tells it is so captivating that Baekhyun almost forgot that he knows each and every one of those things, because he was right there for all of that. And that rusty voice of his going up and down and thick and thin and through explanations and sound effects – for the clicking of the camera – and reconstituting what Kangcheol said, all tied up and teary. 

Storytelling is not an admirable skill. Baekhyun isn’t impressed. Baekhyun is only enraged. 

Because at the end of it all, when the judge looks towards him, all Baekhyun has left to add is an extraordinary, “Basically, yeah.”

At which Park nods enthusiastically, black fizzy hair flailing about, his eyes round like cherry pies. 

Is he drunk. On what, toilet water. Why is he like this today. 

The judge sees them off jovially, saying that he is now very excited to see what they will bring him next. He bows deeply to both of them. When he rises, there’s so much…hope in his eyes.

Baekhyun can’t even be mad anymore. 

  
  
  
  


So the head of it all is Lee Minhyo, a man who came from nothing, and built enough infamy around himself to get high in politics. He left that scene two decades ago and now he is driven by some sort of sick sense of patriotism, as he’s looking to damage the people of countries he thinks have done unforgivably towards them. While indeed there is indeed a general resentment still very much present, it’s worked on peace, on getting along, as the world is coming together instead of trying to take itself apart. It is about time the interest of the mass is taken into consideration above the greed of the leader, and as long as the bounds of their needs are met, why would they need to stretch beyond that. 

So they have that. The name. And more names associated. And the whole money ordeal. 

This will be a good start. 

  
  
  
  


Now.

There’s a problem. A big problem. Which might end in a hell of a fight. 

So while they do have the greenlight to publish, and in the contract they settled they will both publish, they don’t have the  _ order _ . 

And now that they know the proportion of this even better, how engaging it could be, how much it could bring them, they’re even greedier.

Imagine that, it could sell millions of units.  _ Millions _ . 

“I get it because I’m better,” Baekhyun says immediately, getting up from his chair. 

“Who the fuck said you’re better?” Park squeaks. 

“Literally everyone and their mother?”

“Fuck, no? Byun, don’t even think about it.”

“Well, certainly you can’t think about it either.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you’re not better than me.”

“You’re not better than me either.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

And as you can imagine this goes on and on until it’s sundown and everything is sombre and tensed (save for Sehun and Kyungsoo who are full on eyefucking each other - Baekhyun cannot believe his own romance story is being overshadowed right now). 

Objectively speaking though,  _ of course _ Baekhyun is the bestest. The Clandestines has more variety and their audience is made of people of higher prestige, because The Clandestines most often report on realms concerning then, and for these people it is very likely they see themselves between the pages. 

“Yeah, but the purpose is to reach the middle and lower class. Imagine working your ass off every day barely earning anything like a regular citizen and these baboons deadass printed money for themselves,” Park counters. He’s on the table. Baekhyun is also on the table. Theirs squabble reached this far. 

“My blood would boil,” Jongin says in his baby voice. 

“Mine too,” Sehun adds. 

“Mine too,” Jongdae says, though his nose is in a book and obviously not paying attention to any of this. He agreed just to be one with the sheeple. 

Yeah, okay, maybe one point was made. 

But that’s not  _ enough _ . 

“How about,” Kyungsoo says, “arm wrestling?”

Baekhyun would’ve spat his drink out if he was actually drinking anything. This bumpkin didn’t even offer them any beverages.

“You just want to hold Sehun’s hand,” Baekhyun  _ almost _ said, but frankly he wouldn’t want to embarrass him in front of his crush, no matter how obvious he is. Baekhyun is not that cruel.  

“Alright,” he says instead. 

He looks towards Park, expectant. “Arm wrestling it is,” he cedes. 

Then there is a moment of stillness, until Baekhyun realizes that since they’re the leaders, of course  _ they _ have to go first. 

Baekhyun just agreed to arm wrestling, but didn’t think that in order to do that he would have to…you know,  _ hold _ Park’s hand. Touch it. And squeeze it. And push it down. 

But so what. Nothing frightening about a hand. Baekhyun is not about to chicken out because of this. So he gets off the table and goes to sit and Jongin’s desk, as it is the narrowest. He pushes away the few documents on it, and put his elbow on the surface. “Well?” he says, looking at Park. 

Park complies, pulling a chair and putting his elbow aside his. Then their forearms press together – Park’s forearm is longer than his, and he has to readjust his elbow until their wrists align. 

And then they hold hands.

Other than being extra big and extra rough, it feels just like a normal hand. Baekhyun didn’t get any quivers because of it, really. 

Park is the one who squeezes first. Baekhyun squeezes back. Then Park squeezes harder. Baekhyun would rather break a finger than lose be out-squeezed. Who needs fingers. Not Baekhyun. 

The tug is long. There are groans, pulling and pushing, and Baekhyun might be sweating, but it’s not sweat sweat, it is instead just the glorious glimmer of upcoming victory. There are shouts and insults. Baekhyun’s jaw is cracking. Park is nearly falling out of his chair. This shit is very, very intense. The table is shaking, the building is shaking, the earth is shaking. 

And, well, Park wins this one. 

Baekhyun stares at his overpowered hand in shock. It really gave out on him like this. 

Park doesn’t say anything as he lets go of it. Baekhyun does his mightiest not to make eye contact with anyone. When Baekhyun woke up this morning, he didn’t think this would be the day when he would endure the biggest embarrassment of his life. It will haunt him indefinitely. 

But the game must go on. 

They’re replaced by Sehun and Kyungsoo. And Sehun? Caresses Kyungsoo’s hand? And lets him win? And Kyungsoo is smiling like an  _ idiot _ . 

As appalled as he is, at least it means a point for his team, so he can’t complain. 

Then Jongin is too polite to make anyone lose. Jongdae urges him on and on to at least  _ try _ to beat him. Nope. He blushes and says sorry for pushing, Hyung, and when he loses he congratulates Jongdae. 

Park with Kyungsoo is…fair. Ish. Until some sort of? Something is being pulled on, and Park abruptly loses. Baekhyun will ask what was that about as soon as possible, but he has a haunch it has something to do with the kick Sehun delivered to his shin under the table. 

Sehun and Jongdae is ruthless. They’re close to mauling each other when Jongdae reaches the end of his strength and loses. 

Baekhyun and Jongin starts with,” Hyung, your hand is very pretty,” and ends with Jongin being delighted that Baekhyun beat him with his  _ pretty _ hand. Baekhyun is so flustered he can’t even thank him for the compliment.

In the end, because of Jongin, The Clandestines wins. Park is giving murderous stares to Jongin, who is congratulating each one of them happily. He’s too blithesome for his own good. 

Baekhyun feels almost bad for Park; Jongdae and Kyungsoo can be a whole handful sometimes, but at least they’d never betray him with kindness at this level. 

“I have to see it before you turn it for the printing,” Park says, clearing his throat. He’s standing tall and looking down at Baekhyun. Well there’s no other way for him to stand given how tall he is. 

“Agreed,” Baekhyun says, picking up the files he will be needing. Which is all of them.

“And not right before publishing. I have a say too, don’t limit my decision.” 

“Fair enough,” Baekhyun utters, even though he thinks it’s not fair at all, since when does Park have a say about  _ his _ newspaper?

But with this, they bid their goodbyes, and go their merry way. After leaving the files in the safe at the office, Baekhyun walks Jongdae and Kyungsoo home, all three of them concerting the streets on the way. Then Baekhyun skips back on his own, jolly, springy on his steps, because the air smells like victory. 

  
  
  
  


They have to pull everything together. 

This could stand solely with the adjoining stories, but it wouldn’t be the wisest, as it is only in the incipient stage. Baekhyun dedicates a few pages to the descriptions of the banknotes themselves, their characteristics, how to recognize them, and the fact that they’re inconsistent, for he has found some that are the low-quality paper, but the ink bled a little into it, and there is a fuzz detectible under a magnifier. This will be causing enough mass paranoia as it is. And probably get other authorities involved, that is, if they won’t be blocked. And if they are, it confirms the depth of the fishiness of this case. 

For the rest, there are detailed profiles of the few public figures thought to be participating (they  _ are _ participating, but aren’t presented as such yet), including Jeon Seojin, an actor, and Ji Myeongsu, who while not an entertainer, he’s fairly famous.

For last, he leaves the mysterious profile of Lee Minhyo himself. There isn’t much to say about his current whereabouts because they don’t have it, but he has plenty of history to be told. Baekhyun uses all the superlatives in his lexicon to delineate how much of a draconic individual he is. 

Around this, he pulls a few excerpts of what the other agencies sent him. As Baekhyun is working on the layout – and this needs something very different to what he’s been using so far – Jongdae comes back. 

He was off to interview a shoemaker. In his hand, he has the recorder and a new pair of shoes. Baekhyun hurries him to write it down so he can add it to the draft. 

Even with that, there are still a few gaps. Of course, he could just make the font bigger, but Baekhyun isn’t a scammer. He keeps fishing through the supplements. They don’t need some nonsense from the hinterlands, they need the hot stuff, the big stuff, the dignitaries, the top bananas. The top apples, the whole top of the fruit basket. He puts aside a few. 

Among the envelopes though, he finds a reply from his mother. His photograph sent back, scrawled over, telling him he really needs to practice his green onion chopping skills. It’s been over three weeks since then, and it’s not that it takes that long for a letter to get here from his hometown, it is that she just forgot to reply to him. And she never sends the package without sending him some condiment. This time a tiny bottle of aged soy sauce from the barrel they have in the basements, darkened until syrupy. While she did her best to school him into the art of feeding himself, he really isn’t that good, and he would benefit immensely from such things. Because everything is good if you slap some of this sauce on it. 

He smiles, then puts it in his drawer, and keeps working. 

  
  
  
  


Baekhyun goes to Park’s house himself. 

He could send it by mail or courier, but he doesn't want to, because what if this gets lost? The thought of that alone is terrifying. And he just ate, a potful of soup, and his belly is tumid with goodness and he needs a walk to calm that down a little. Baekhyun truly is only doing it for the belly. 

“Your udders aren’t out this time,” Baekhyun intones, blankly, when Park opens the door. He’s wearing cotton loungewear, pilling at the pits, and shrunken as if they’re hand-me-downs from his youth. His shirt a bit tight on his chest and his pants ill-fitting in the crotch area and drooping on his hips, a very low slice of his hipbones observable. A lurid sight. It will give Baekhyun nightmares. 

“They could be if you ask nicely,” Park says, after which he laughs  _ one _ laugh, and gets out of the doorway to invite Baekhyun.

Baekhyun is hesitant. Who knows what salmonella he’s going to get from breathing in the contaminated air in Park’s lair. His immune system won’t fail him now, Baekhyun hopes as he steps in. 

He doesn’t look around at all. He just sits where Park directs him to, a medium, square table in the middle of his living room. Park sits across from him. He looks…different. Maybe it’s the light, which is warm, coral. Or the clothing, which is soft, and improper. Or the hair, which is loose and ruffled. Or his general disposition, which is hard to define, but positive. 

Baekhyun is just not as repulsed by his presence as he would normally be, that’s all. 

Enough examination of Park, he puts the draft on the table. He immediately slides it towards himself. 

The title on the front page is all about sensationalism. Baiting. “SKY HIGH LIES” it says, and normally Baekhyun wouldn’t use capitals because those look too cheap, but for this, it fits. 

Park says it aloud. Twice. It sounds good, Baekhyun thinks. He’s good at this. 

“I like it,” Park declares, turning the page. 

That starts an  _ onslaught _ of praises. Baekhyun wasn’t prepared to be basically  _ assaulted _ with all of this. From the layout to the wording to the decorative frames around the columns, to the choice of typography, to the flow of the information through the segments. All of it. Baekhyun, of course, cannot take credit for it all. Kyungsoo wrote over half of what’s there, and Jongdae edited it all, as he has an impeccable eye for phrasing. 

But Baekhyun put in his fair share of work, and, ngl, this is plumping up his heart a  _ lot _ . 

When Park gets to the comic, he laughs. “I love this!” he exclaims. “I’ve been a fan for so long.” And his eyes  _ shine _ , because of the one candle on the table, fire flickering in his pupils. 

Baekhyun looks away. That cat is yet again on the sill of his window. Baekhyun sees an ashtray there, with some sort of food in it. He feeds stray cats, huh. He doesn’t want to see that either, so he returns his gaze back to Park. Who is still laughing. 

He looks closely at his chest, his pokey, mountainous chest, and yeah behind it, there might be a heart. Probably. 

“I like it,” he says, turning the last page of the draft. “You guys did great.”

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

Baekhyun feels how he is blushing. He really can’t be blushing any more than this. He must run out of blush ink at some point. He hasn’t an infinite resource of blushiness, it just can’t be. 

“Are you okay?” Park asks, head tilting eyes roaming about his face.

“I ate too many tomatoes and tomatoized myself. If you’ll excuse me now,” Baekhyun blurts, suddenly getting up, and rushing towards the door. 

As he walks back, Baekhyun fans himself with his hands. “What the fuck was  _ that _ ?” and in bed, he keeps asking Kyung and Bobochu as well. They have no answer. 

  
  
  
  


That day starts late, because Baekhyun sleeps in. Nothing wrong with that, he defends as Jongdae and Kyungsoo glare at him. 

They do manage to amend everything there is to amend, including Park’s brief suggestions. A while after lunch, the draft is finished and ready to be sent to the printing house. 

Baekhyun wants to show it to Papa too. At the beginning, he always wished to see it beforehand, and though he never made any modifications, trusting his judgments (not the brightest decision, Baekhyun thinks, he made some poor choices at that time), it was just something he had to do. But nowadays, Papa doesn’t want to see it. He would much rather enjoy it like a normal reader, no spoilers. 

But this is special, not like any of their previous issues. Worst case scenario, it completely obliterates their newspaper. It’s a risk he should be aware of. 

Baekhyun debates going, not going, going, not going. At last, he decides on not going. If Papa trusts his judgment, then Baekhyun does too. 

That night all three of them make the trip to the printing house, guarding the draft between them. They sing along the way. 

  
  


Today is a marvellous day. Baekhyun wakes up happy, refreshed, jumpy musing in his ears, the birds chirping outside. He dances his way to the bathroom where he splashes his face with water, over and over, then gives himself the biggest smile in the mirror because it’s a beautiful day and he’s beautiful and he can but smile beautifully on this beautiful day. 

His breakfast, because Baekhyun is feeling festive, is elaborate. Three whole side dishes, one of which being chicken stew – two portions, to have later. He eats until he can’t get up. 

Late, tea in hand, he walks out on the veranda, and he sees nothing, nothing, then hears talking, hears the buzz, and people walking with  _ his _ newspaper in hand.

This is barley and green tea, but it smells like triumph. In fact everything smells like triumph, the air, the buildings, Baekhyun’s clothes, Baekhyun’s armpits, because he is oozing triumph, because this is an accomplishments of proportions. Baekhyun is successful and out of everyone’s league now. Just  _ look _ at those reactions, there isn’t a corner in the whole city that doesn’t talk about this. 

Soon their mail will be bursting with inquisition and other things. As per their deal with the judge, they are not to interact with anyone, nor divulge more than they have agreed on for now. So Baekhyun will be as hands off as possible with this uproar of attention, which means he will only be enjoying it from afar.

He might be exaggerating though. His expectations are high, and when he sees more than five people who just walk on the street normally and not like the spiciest news in the history of spicy news has been revealed…Baekhyun mopes a little. And he mopes some more, sighing, leaning over the balustrade. Until he sighs one more time, and decided to do some mopping instead of moping because damn his soles feel a little dirty from the dust, and Baekhyun is not a porcine creature. 

Later on, he phones his beloved comrades to treat them to a meal, followed by drunken ice cream at Somin’s. Jongdae gets shitfaced and Baekhyun gets shitfaced and Kyungsoo gets shitfaced and who invented that word, they fight, are they faux shitfaced drunkards if they have not faece-fyed their faces? This is fishier than the fish market.

But anyway, when Baekhyun gets home, barging in, shoes are hard to take off, who invented shoelaces, you moron, good evening, he shouts into the home, and though there are no people there, there are objects and a few fruit flies and that one bird who always chirps about Baekhyun’s winnow and made a little nest under the sill, and the memories of his life here, they deserve to have a good evening too. When he succeeds in taking his shoes off, he sees that there’s an envelope on the floor. 

He picks it up. Non-standard size, hand folded it, no signature on the outside.

Is this another creepy summons. Is this his first death threat.

He opens it.

_ Can’t wait to have a taste of this too,  _ it says

Lower signed by _Park_ _Chanyeol_.

Baekhyun narrows his eyes. He drew snowdrops on the card. Baekhyun remembers that Park can draw, so he drew snowdrops on this card. Snowdrops. Four of them, poking out of a wiggly line of representational snow. It’s not even winter, what the fuck, and snowdrops are so cute. Baekhyun loves snowdrops. Because they’re drops of snow, but not really, because they’re flowers, flowers so strong and resilient enough to poke out of the frigidity of the ground against all odds, and when no other plants can, and that’s so brave and so strong and so admirable of them, and Baekhyun is totally emotional over this, but before he starts crying, his stomach churns and churns and churns, doing the same motions Baekhyun is doing when he’s washing his denim garments, and then he has to throw up because dayum, he drank too much.

By morning, the snowdrop letter is forgotten. 

 

He goes with the customary three beers to Papa’s. Baekhyun currently cannot think nor stomach nor mouth nor anything any alcohol, so he’s drinking alone as Baekhyun fulfils his pencil sharpening duty. 

“You might get a promotion,” Papa laughs, with that sort of old-man hohoho, that sounds a bit of tuberculosis and a lot of jubilee.

“You mean become you?” Baekhyun asks. He laughs yet again. He’s tipsy and funny and cute. As soon as Baekhyun sharpens the last pencil, he asks for a neck massage. Baekhyun cracks his fingers. “No thank you, I’m too young for that.”

“Rascal, I’m just trying to say you did well,” Papa grumbles, golden tooth sparking. 

Baekhyun blushes. This is the second praise of this kind he gets in the last 48 hours. But he blushes…less than when Park said it. It’s less of a salve, less of a giddiness.

It’s because Baekhyun is hungover. And he is a bit benumbed because of it. This is why. Totally.

“Keep that promotion for next time.”

“It was a limited offer, sorry.” 

And Baekhyun massage-tortures him until the possibility is back on the table. 

  
  
  
  


Jongdae is currently wearing an eye mask. Like the sleeping kind. As he’s rattling away at his typewriter. Oh, it’s the horoscope, Baekhyun realizes as it comes out of the machine.

“Oh my god, I’ll win the lottery today,” he exclaims.

“But you’re not an Aquarius.”

“Sure I am, I had fish for lunch.”

Jongdae pushes up his eyemask.

“Without me?””

“It was one small, tiny, very tiny, about as tiny as Park’s dick, fish,” Baekhyun pouts apologetically. 

Jongdae sighs. Rips the paper. Retypes.

_ Aquarius: a friend might kill you. Fortunately, you only die once. _

Baekhyun huffs. “That’s so mean.”

But Jongdae doesn’t mention anything about Baekhyun mentioning Park’s dick. It remains unmentioned. Which  _ thank lord _ . 

  
  
  
  


Not even two days later, after the buzz has been talked and over talked and talked about again, and now the people are hungry for additional details, and well, they should feed them, they have to regroup, and decide on the next course of action. Which is, of course, going after Park Minhyo. Because, indeed, despite the multitude of suspicions and proven misdeeds they have published, no legal action has been done, except a few police officers doing some routine ‘health inspection’ at Oasis. Which means exactly that this is being stalled somewhere, and somewhere really high up.

They have to go to the source. And the source is in the Sky Lounge, almost five nights outs of seven. But the Sky Lounge isn’t Oasis. First of all, it is physically secluded – they won’t be able to jump out the window of the tenth floor to save their asses, and then all the exclusivity and the snobbishness and the fact that these are people who basically have no fear. And Baekhyun is fearless, but without meaning he has no fear, because he does have some fears, but he’s still fearless, don’t doubt his brand.

In conclusion, ain’t nobody going in there alone.

Killing or offing or injuring one of them is harder than doing that to two. Or three. Or four. But it is unlikely that they’ll manage to smuggle so many of them in at once, not to mention how they’ll have to do it over and over without seeming to be together. 

But now why him and Park? It could be him and Kyungsoo. Him and Jongdae. Him and Jongin (he would love that,  _ maybe _ ). Him and Sehun (and he will take that opportunity to let Sehun know the immediate danger he’d be in the moment he displeases a single hair on Kyungsoo’s head).

But why him and Park?

“Because I speak Japanese?” Park says, leaning in and looking at Baekhyun like he is the dumb one.

“Do you?” Baekhyun is sceptical, because Japanese is hard and Park is not known to be good at hard things.

“Hai.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. He’s pulling these weeb things on him now. “Do we really need any Japanese?”

“To talk to the…girls? To the dudes there? Say I’ve studied in Japan and got a taste for Japanese…things?”

Baekhyun cringes at the wording. In their tips there is the fact that there might be women involved too, and though it is not confirmed, it is all too likely. They have to talk candidly about it, as to forget the atrocities and move forward. This is going to suck. Several points were made. Baekhyun can do nothing but succumb.

“And who are we?”

“Business partners?”

“Which is not a lie,” Jongin whispers.

“What sort of business?” If Baekhyun is to think of what sort of business he would like to do...it’s pottery. But that’s not outrageously profitable, and they need outrageously profitable. 

“Oil? Refinery? You got barrels I got a plant?”

Okay that might do and because now there is a rise on this, and how secret those locations are – they could be easily invaded to suck it all, it is known how much confidentiality there is around it.

“So we got money.”

“Yeah.”

And pause. Because this is playing but – “How are you staying with that?” Baekhyun asks, wondering himself how much is left in his money box under the bed. Of course he keeps the biggest funds in the bank, but the possibly spendable change is there. And there isn’t a lot…lot of it.

“My finances are fine, thank you,” Park responds, prim and proper and totally evading it. “And the cost should be on the judge and the mayor. We’re not doing this for ourselves.”

They need some cheques. Baekhyun will have to order a French wine whose name he will so frenchily pronounce and it will cost approximatively his whole pancreas and someone needs to foot that bill.

“Yeah, okay,” Baekhyun relinquishes. “I’ll do it…with you.”

Park makes a smug face. He looks like a pickled flipflop. 

  
  
  
  


You have to remember that this isn’t happening in some small city where everyone knows each other. And most people aren’t very good at remembering faces. And Baekhyun’s and Park’s faces are also not known outside the skirts they most frequent. They have never appeared in any publications, because they are not media representants of their newspapers. They are known, mostly, in name. Which is nothing. 

Thus, in preparation, Baekhyun doesn’t have to radically change himself. He gets a haircut, and a few new sets of clothes. Some people do know his face, but Baekhyun likes to think that he has impersonated enough characters as to not have too many people who can pinpoint him. A change in posture can throw off any resemblance. 

What Park does is iron his shirt. And gel back his hair. He has a  _ lot _ of forehead. Baekhyun could grow a good couple of green onions on such an area. Baekhyun thinks he should do more given how much he stands out, but for the very same reason, if he does something out of the ordinary, it might make it even worse.

“Can you do something about the legs?” Baekhyun asks when he sees him approaching. He’s currently waiting at the back of the cinematograph, where they convened to meet for their first attempt at getting a lead in.

And Baekhyun can’t stop fixating on his arciform (he wanted to use ‘bowy’ but apparently that word doesn’t exist) legs. They’re a dead giveaway. 

“Sorry, I forgot to get my other pair,” Park says, ironic. 

Baekhyun clears his throat. They’ll have to make do.

Right now they’re working on getting into the Sky Lounge. Which they could do by themselves – after all, the entrance is but a door – and even with how tight the security is, it’s more than doable. But it wouldn’t be ideal. They’d be intruders. 

So they’re aiming to be  _ brought _ in. Baekhyun has connection, but his network doesn’t come anywhere near that place. And Park’s doesn’t either. 

In this case, they’ll have to manufacture a connection. 

Which is what they’re trying to accomplish at this cinematograph.

Sehun told them about how a director of a few decent movies comes here often. He’s fairly low key, but he uses the place for scouting and judging talent because he is not that good and he wants people with notoriety on his name. Any publicity is good publicity. 

They see him in line at the ticket booth. By himself. Round glasses and wavy hair up in a topknot. Plaid shirt and ankle boots. Not the best ootd, but Baekhyun is not surprised by it. 

They get tickets right after him and go in. They saw where he noted his ticket on the sheet and got them one row above. They sit, and the movie immediately starts playing. Baekhyun is holding a bag of popcorn, because a prop is a prop. It’s a delicious prop though, and once Baekhyun took a kernel, he couldn’t stop. 

“Can you be a little quieter with that Byun?” he mutters, and Baekhyun very very intentionally chews louder in his ear. 

Maybe it’s the distress over the fact that he’s currently watching a movie with Park. In the dark. And close together. This is less than ideal to say the least. Baekhyun occasionally snatches glances at him to make sure that he’s focusing on the target, and he sees these big round eyes shining from the light and those plump cheeks plump and hey, hey Park we’re here for business not to actually enjoy the movie.

It takes too long for it to end, and when it does, Baekhyun is itching to get out of that char and get something done. He immediately makes talk with the director. “Aren’t you Director Kim Kibeom?! Nice to meet you, such an honour!” Because fanfare just works. And talking just works. And they are not befriending him, not per say, but the next time they lurk around and see him going to the Sky Lounge, they’ll go right up with him, compliment his pants off once more, and get in.

Baekhyun asks this and that about this one movie, about others, about his work, about his life, all under the guise of being so enamoured with him and his project. By the end of it, the director is but a puddle flattery. And nothing gets people as far in life as flattery.

They bid him goodbye with deep bows. 

“That was a nice movie,” Park says as they’re going away. His lips are sprinkled with salt, glittering on the red rawness.

“Not really,” Baekhyun deadpans.

“Like you weren’t on the edge of your seat,” Park says, tipping his head back, and laughing to the skies, bike parting from him. Baekhyun looks after him, in  _ disdain _ , and almost ends up hugging a pole.

 

Baekhyun spends two days working with Jongdae down in the workshop-cum-darkroom that very recently got cum-ed into being so because Baekhyun wouldn’t miss an opportunity to make that pun. They need to make these cameras no bigger than a cigarette pack. Which, for this time, is no easy feat to accomplish. 

Standard film rolls are too big and too thick. Baekhyun tried all the specialty stores around for custom-made rolls, which he couldn’t get. Then he sends Kyungsoo, by train, in the province to some little secluded merchant who imports film – and he finds something close enough there. He comes back with whole box of rolls, after which they can tailor the rotary motor inside to fit the perforations. Then they adjusted the mirror and the shutter, because those slides are a lot smaller, and they need to preserve clarity. The photo might be taken with a teabag, but it must not look like it. 

After a whole day of tweaking, Baekhyun screws in the last bolt in the camera, and aims it at Jongdae. His form braided with the chair, eyes bloodshot, and smile kittitly and annoyed and his skin yellow. A banana kitten face with cherry eyes, like a cartoon drawn by a pre-schooler. Baekhyun takes a shot of it. 

Baekhyun processes the film as fast as possible, projects it, develops it, not even dunking the sheet in the rinsing tray properly before he holds it up in the light. 

“Holy shit,” Jongdae says. 

Because of course it’s fucking  _ good _ , honestly were you expecting any less here? 

A party unleashes, hugging and dancing and yelling and Baekhyun pinches Jongdae’s cheeks and Jongdae yelps, and makes to pinch Baekhyun’s other cheeks, and then somehow Jongdae has Baekhyun ass up on the table as Baekhyun tries to swim away from him. They phone Kyungsoo to shout about their success, and Kyungsoo flatly says,” Good good,” and invites them over for dinner. He was free-ish all this while, and boy would never miss a chance to prep something. So hand in hand, Jongdae and Baekhyun skip to Kyungsoo’s, eat well, drink well, laugh well cuddle well, and then accidentally sleep over as well. 

 

It’s just that Baekhyun prefers entering his flat through the office, not that he doesn’t have an  _ official _ , separate door. It’s just used sparingly, and Baekhyun has outlined it with cacti and a very very cute embroidered doormat. It  _ might _ look like a dummy door, but no, it is a real, functional one. 

And mid-morning, as Baekhyun is fixing one of the chairs in the kitchen  – it has a bit of a dance, the nail loosened into the wood as it dried – someone knocks. On the official door. Baekhyun hasn’t heard a knock on that door since sliced bread. 

Baekhyun takes his pliers with him and slides towards it. He doesn’t have a peephole. He puts his ear to it, and hears nothing but the traffic. Another knock comes. 

Baekhyun opens the door. 

And there is Park. Standing. And looking at him. He looks like a jarred meteorological phenomenon, which means puffiness from sleep and wild hair. But his disposition seems gladsome. 

“Are you pulling someone’s teeth with that?” he asks, pointing at Baekhyun’s hand.

“Mayhap yours.”

“Good thing I have many of them,” Park says, jovial, whole bodily jovial, lids pleated and skip to his step as he pushes past Baekhyun and enters his flat.

Baekhyun didn’t  _ invite _ him. This is the halidom of his excellence, his sanctuary, his hideout. Baekhyun only allows a few carefully selected personages to break it, and Park is not on that list. 

Baekhyun isn’t fuming just because he isn’t a chimney, but is basically fuming.  

“What’s the business?” he asks, closing the door and striding after Park. 

Park pivots,  looking around. Baekhyun’s flat is more of a studio, open space, the only walls being around the bathroom and the pantry. From any angle, the whole place can be seen. 

His gaze seems to be lagging on Baekhyun’s unmade bed. Someone said that making your bed is like tying your shoelaces after you take off yours shoes, and Baekhyun adopted this as a life principle, so he is  _ not _ ashamed of the state of his bed. If anything, it has geography and personality. 

He’s with his back at Baekhyun. Which is as big as a parking spot. Surname checks out. He turns around. “We’re awkward,” he says simply. 

“Right now?” Baekhyun questions incredulously. He gabs the kitchen stool and puts it upright. It’s improper of it to be with its legs up and open like that, Baekhyun owns some protection to its dignity.

“Always?” Park says, eyebrows up. 

“Well,” Baekhyun mumbles, climbing onto the stool. He wags in it.  No more of that little dance. “That’s undeniable.”

“And you don’t see a problem with that?” Park asks, coming close. Baekhyun thinks he should offer him a seat, but he isn’t about to personally, manually, place his buns on the surface, he can do that himself. “Are you looking down on this so much?” He inquires further. He’s fired up. “We have big things to be concerned about, and I feel it is jeopardised by the fact that we find great discomfort in each other’s presence.”

Baekhyun looks away. At the steam fascicle angrily erupting from the spout of his teapot. Brunch instead of breakfast today, because he needed to sleep in after all the work he put in the past few nights. He hasn’t decided yet what tea he wants.

“I don’t think it affects it that much,” Baekhyun says. 

“The other day you were so busy humiliating me that we lost the trail of two suspects,” Park says, pause between each word, like he’s talking to a walnut foetus, not a fully (or more) cognizant man. 

But he’s…right. They did lose two suspects, and though the bazar they caught them in had corners too dark and it was crowded, swarming. Had they been more focused, they could’ve gotten something. But Baekhyun just couldn’t get over the way he walked, so unwieldy, and so loud and gangly and like a malformed arachnid, and it threatened their subtlety a lot, and their silence, and their everything! “You think only small people are involved in espionage?” He queried, loud, and then they unleashed their everything in a spat, which meant grabbing peaches from the vendor nearby and blasting each other with them. They had to pay a hefty compensation to the seller afterwards. And Baekhyun feels sticky with peach juice to this day. 

“I’m not saying there wouldn’t be benefice to us getting along.”

“Then let’s get along,” Park nods, closer and closer. He’s sitting in the opposite chair now. At Baekhyun’s table. 

The luminance in his eyes is overbright. Baekhyun has to squint. Does Park have a dial to tune that down like his gaslamp. He needs it. Baekhyun will pro bono install one in his ear – seems like a good spot – if Park allows him. Just please, stop blinding him so early in the day.

“I won’t promise much, but I will try to…stomach you.”

Just then, his stomach rumbles. A full-blown intestinal concerto. Perfect. This is absolutely perfect. 

Park laughs. Hard. He’s going to break his other chair too, dammit. “I’d rather not be stomached,” he says. 

“I’ll have to stomach something, whether it’s you or something else,” Baekhyun says, sliding off the chair. He approaches the counter, taking the weeping teapot off the heat. He throws in a handful of jasmine. 

“I’m voting for something else.”

Baekhyun nods. Then turns on the heat for his porridge. Can never go wrong with porridge.

He turns towards the table and…Park is still here. Looking at him…expectantly?

My goodness, he doesn’t expect Baekhyun to start being nice to him right  _ now _ , before he even had breakfast, does he?

But it seems like…that is indeed the case. He’s sitting with his parking lot-esque back straight, his billion teeth out and about. 

Baekhyun cannot believe this is happening. Slowly, offendedly, he asks, “Would you like…some?” and points towards the pot. 

Park immediately nods. “Yes, thank you!”

This can’t be happening right now, Baekhyun thinks, stirring the porridge. And he keeps stirring it in silence, shaking his head, until it’s steamy gloopy goodness. 

Baekhyun puts it into  _ two _ bowls, garnishes it, and places it on the table. He also pours  _ two _ cups of jasmine tea. Baekhyun only owns three spoons, and he gives the ugliest to Park. 

He sits down. His stomach rumbles again – the encore. 

“It looks good,” Park says, cupping the bowl. His hands are bigger than the bowl. Is he doing it to make Baekhyun look like a cheapskate not giving enough food or—

“Bon appetit,” Baekhyun says in French, like the cultivated man that he is.

Park’s eyes are big. And generally round. And sparkly. And bright. And full and deep and dreamy and absolutely gor—disgusting. Everything about him is disgusting.

“Ugh. I mean,” Baekhyun rectifies, crossing his legs. “I hope you choke.”

“That’s more like it, Byun,” Park says, but it’s with his mouth full, pink lips speckled with rice goo, which is so cut—disgusting. Horrifically disgusting. “I hope you choke too.”

Baekhyun smiles, all plastic. “Thank you.”

  
  
  


They attempted to get into the Sky Lounge. Without anyone’s help because their charmed director is out of town filming. They didn’t think that through. Of course a director would be here and there throughout the country actually  _ filming _ . They just assumed he would be less employed than that, because frankly, he looked dead beat as hell. Not that Baekhyun would be judging him that bad .

“That wasn’t so smart,” Kyungsoo muses, as though he didn’t agree to that plan as well. A more baffling thing, however, is the fact that he’s saying all of this while sitting on Sehun’s  _ thigh _ . And Sehun’s hand is on his  _ hip _ . As though it is right at home there. When did all of this development happen, just a few scenes ago Sehun was telling Kyungsoo he’s cute, this is too fast.

“Thank you for the input,” Baekhyun responds, putting as much “you owe me an explanation for this” intonation as he can. It falls on deaf ears.

Well, they’ll have to apply plan B, because they also have the outskirts of the fiasco to investigate. Like the money thing. Because if Park Minhyo is the head of this as well, and not just an affiliate. 

Jongin and Sehun (when Kyungsoo wasn’t on his thigh) have been working really hard on tracing down the fabrication of those bills. The sourcing of that odd paper, then lurking around Oasis some more, because that money has to enter that establishment through somewhere, there is only so many orifices a building can have. They pinpointed some people and traced it back to Incheon, where, after research, surprise surprise, have found yet another club, ran by an old, faithful patron to the Sky Lounge, later turned associate, and exiled. This lead seems to be of worth, and they might just discover the forging laboratory. It’s nothing sure as of now though, which is why there’s no use in going with the whole flock.

Which is how the next morning finds Baekhyun folding a handful of necessities into a shoulder bag and pacing back and forth on the curb, waiting for Park to pick him up with his car. At last, he shows up, Park’s vehicle coughing up the hill, and when he stops, he lowers the window in Baekhyun’s direction, diligently rolling the handle, and he frowns, “Did you take any water? I’m so thirsty.”

What is Baekhyun, a fucking oasis? The  _ nerve _ .

“No,” he grumbles.

Park’s lips jut out, and his eyes downturn. He looks at Baekhyun. Then his lips jut out even more.

He’s  _ pouting _ , Baekhyun realizes with appalment. At  _ Baekhyun _ . And he’s pouting  _ hard _ . What in the—

He rounds the car, opens the door, and throws himself inside. “You better floor it because of course you were late,” he spits.

 

Half an hour into the drive, Baekhyun gives Park some of his water.

 

Another half an hour into the drive, Baekhyun drinks from the very same bottle. Now he got the Park cooties and will have to bleach his oesophagus.

 

Incheon really isn’t that far, but it felt very very far with Park being incapable of keeping a steady speed. Baekhyun has turned green and is just about ready for some photosynthesis by the time they get out of the car, Park running to grab a map from a press shop.

“You alright?” Park asks.  _ Now _ he’s asking, after he drove like a weeping anal wart on steroids.

“Yes, marvellous,” Baekhyun says, snatching the map from him. In his pocket, he has the addresses Jongin noted down (in his cute penmanship, did Baekhyun mention that his writing is  _ adorable _ ?).

The plan for today is to find the possible location – which is exactly this paper atelier, it appears. Makes sense to be in charge of the whole production, being there’s quite a lot of detailing embedded into the paper itself. Then find the club, named…ko—kobop. Kokobap? Baekhyun squints. This word wants to feel special so much. Baekhyun can’t be bothered to assign any sort of meaning to it. Anyway, find it, note down its operation, its clientele, its degree of suspiciousness, yada yada, you know the drill by now.

A whole lot of getting lost later, entering odd doors, following chipped signage – lunch break, samgak kimbap from the convenience store, washed down with mineral water, and for dessert a whole lot of quarrelling over the map – they finally, hopefully, find the Kokoshit place. Which of course looks like all the clubs he’s ever been to, honestly all of them seem to have taken inspiration from the same expired magazine, where is the originality.

However, the wonderful thing is that they see the boss right as they enter, sitting at the top of a long table, surrounded by roaring, suit-clad inebriates. Park takes out the photograph Sehun put into their research envelope, and he holds it up, and yep, it’s exactly him. Lee Chaemun. Life really is easy like this sometimes.

“Our job here is done,” Baekhyun says, pivoting right out of the club. “For now.”

Other than making a few rounds around the perimeter of the building, and studying the two backdoors they have, there is not much to see today. It’s Tuesday, a day of too little activity, and it is easier for them to stand out when it is so empty.

For the banknote mill, they did see a building, more of a garage, that could be it. But it was locked, with three fat, assertive locks actually, and they didn’t get near it because god forbid someone catches them prowling about something like this.

With a dinner of another set of samgak kimbap, it is now time to retreat to their place. Which they don’t have, because they’re not going back to Seoul now – they have to go spy on that garage first thing in the morning. So, to a hotel nearby they go. Is it the only hotel in the city? Probably not. But Baekhyun’s feet hurt too much for him to be able to drag himself to another one, because though they had the car, those steep streets weren’t navigable. So now Baekhyun has tremendously hurty feet, and hasn’t it already been established that he doesn’t’t fancy that?

So when the receptionist at the hotel says they have one room left (isn’t it crazy how in a town so small, this huge hotel only has one room left?) Baekhyun confirms it in a heartbeat.

 

Three minutes later, Park unlocks the door.

They enter. Baekhyun counts. One—

One—

O—

This must be because of the malware he got from Park after drinking water after him, because in the room, there is just one bed. Why would it be just one bed? How is that…economically advantageous.

“Waaaa,” Park says, running and throwing himself right into the middle of it. It looks tall. And fluffy. And magnificent. The bed, not Park,  _ obviously _ . They splurged on this hotel because well, they’re not personally financing it, so. Don’t judge.

Park rolls around on it. Giggling. And rolling and giggling, boy is really feeling himself like in the garden of Eden.

Baekhyun clears his throat. “That’s mine.”

Park uprights himself in the middle of the bed, resting in a crater broken into the fluff of the bedding. “What?” he croaks.

“I said that’s mine. You had your fun, but now it is the time that I claim it,” Baekhyun speaks, putting down the bag on his shoulder.

Park stares at him. Long. Given that his entirety is long, of course his gaze would be long too. At least he’s consistent about his longness. “Uh,” he begins. “No.”

Baekhyun’s eyebrows shoot up. “No?”

“No.”

Baekhyun laughs. “ _ Yes _ .”

“No.”

“ _ Yes _ ,” he stresses.

“What entitles you to it, huh?” Park asks, an innocence in his tone, like he wants Baekhyun to  _ justify _ this demand, like with  _ actual _ arguments, instead of getting that…it’s just how it is. An automatic, incontestable given.

He swallows a rice grain he found stuck between his cheek and his gum. “Because it is mine.”

Park laughs, peal peal peal, asperous. “Really? Where does it say? I don’t see your name on it.”

“Only a simpleton would mark his property this way,” Baekhyun says.

“The collar of your shirt has your name embroidered on the inside of it.”

Baekhyun balks. He bites his lip. “My mom did it.”

Park laughs some more. And he laughs. This is not funny. Nothing about this is funny. But Baekhyun’s laughter organs...mirror it. And Baekhyun finds himself laughing with him. It’s not voluntary. It’s that laughter is contagious. Perhaps one of the most dangerous diseases of them all. Baekhyun is  _ ill _ , which is why he’s laughing right along with Park.

Slowly, it quietens.

“I’ve never heard that before,” Park says, voice serrated, eyes incandescent. “It was nice.”

Baekhyun immediately wipes the smile off his face. He squares up his shoulders. “Heard what?”

Park waves him off, then rolls off the bed. He pads towards his bag. “I’ll wash up real quick,” he says, pulling out some clothes and a small bag. “Don’t you dare not leave space for me.”

“Leave space for you?”

Now Park doesn’t even answer him, just skipping towards the bathroom. He stops at the doorway, and turns towards him. “There’s the floor too, if you’d like that.”

Baekhyun looks at the floor. It’s nice, for a floor, but not nearly as nice as the bed. Baekhyun admits he has distanced himself from the traditional sleeping arrangement, and definitely prefers this now so — “Indeed, you’d have so much space,” Baekhyun says.

Park starts unbuttoning his shirt. As he makes pointed visual contact with Baekhyun. There’s a smear of something on his temple. Another button. And another. “I’ll be out soon,” he says, closing the door of the bathroom.

Through the duration of Park’s shower, Baekhyun doesn’t even approach the bed. He just takes a tour of the room. It’s barely eight square metres, there’s only so much he can see. Those are some nice glasses on that tray. But that’s about it. Otherwise there is just the sound of flowing water. Never in his life Baekhyun thought he would reach a time to hear Park showering. And share a room with him. Share a  _ bed _ with him.

But when the water stops, a few minutes later followed by Park opening the door – fully clothed, thank lord, in polka dotted pyjamas – all Baekhyun can think about is how he wants to be clean too, in pyjamas too, ready to sleep too. 

He takes his bag and pushes past Park into the bathroom. He washes up fast, because he’s tired, but after he’s all rinsed off, he does spend a while just being under the hot water. He doesn’t think of anything. He just enjoys. 

When he gets out of the bathroom, Park is in bed, under the cover, sitting up against the headboard. He’s writing something in a little  notebook. It is half the size of his palm.

He looks so…comfortable. Baekhyun wants to be comfortable too. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to take the floor,” Baekhyun asks one last time. 

“Nope,” Park replies, decisive.

He only knows how to be irksome and obtuse and whataboutist, doesn’t he. Baekhyun rolls his eyes and climbs onto the other side of the bed. And,  _ oh fuck _ , that’s  _ soft _ . Soft like Kyungsoo’s butt – don’t ask about that one time Baekhyun managed to faceplant into it and it felt like  _ heaven _ . This is nearly on par with Kyungsoo’s ass. He sighs, and snuggles in, and sinks, and he smiles because this just feels  _ good _ . And nice. And lovely. And he can’t wait to sleep.

But he can’t sleep, because—

“Turn off that bloody lamp,” he spittles through his teeth, looking at him through the corner of his eye. 

“What’s bloody about it?” Park asks. Another small page is turned in his small notebook, after which he makes small scribbles with his small pen.

Baekhyun curls his hurty feet better under the duvet. Calm, Baekhyun,  _ calm _ . “Turn off that lamp,” he says. Out of all people,  _ Park _ is the one to pseudo-reprimand him about the pottiness of his mouth? The world is perishing.

Park doesn’t say anything, but after a few more seconds of scribbling, she turns it off. Baekhyun hears him put it on the bedside table, and his sigh too – sigh-wise, Baekhyun does it better, he deems – and then slides deep under the duvet. Which stretches and Baekhyun pulls it back, and Park pulls it back, and Baekhyun pulls it back, and Park whines that he’s not all covered.

“Cut off some then!” Baekhyun exclaims.

Park scoffs at him, nasal like a flushing toilet. Baekhyun would jam a plunger up his throat right about now. “Not like you can add that to yourself, little one,” he says, face into the pillow.

Baekhyun pauses. And pales. “What the fuck did you just say, you uninstalled shelf?”

Baekhyun doesn’t have any insecurities about his height. None. Nada. Niente. He’s perfect. Not too close to the sky, not too close to the ground. Legs the optimal leggy length. Torso the optimal thoracic length. He is, unquestionably, undeniably, irrefutably,  _ perfect _ . How  _ dare _ Park imply such absurdity. “You have the proportions of an aborted spider, brave of you to talk.”

But Park is just laughing. Laughing and laughing and laughing. The mattress is shaking. Richter would be thrilled. Baekhyun isn’t though. Park’s eyes are closed, his lashes smushed together. They look like a forest out of a horror movie. There might be hiding a microscopic serial killer in there too. Awful.

“Can spiders even have abortions?” he asks through peals, peering at him. His cheeks are also smushed. He’s all smushed, but a puddle of a person. He should be sleeping in a diaper, not in a bed.

“You’re proof of it,” Baekhyun jeers.

Park laughs. Some more. Baekhyun is sick of this.  _ So _ sick of this. “Shut up.”

And Park laughs  _ harder _ , and “Shut up!” and  _ harder _ , and “Shut up!” and  _ harder _ , and “Shut up!” and Baekhyun has been at his wits end for so long that he ends up jumping Park, straddling his chest, and strangling him. “You can’t laugh if you’re dead. Shut the fuck up,” Baekhyun threatens, hands tightening around his neck. His neck is thick, and meaty, perfect for the grill. He knows exactly how he would dispose of the body, if he doesn’t! Shut! Up!

He quiets and stills at once, eyes so wide Baekhyun almost sees the entire contour of his eyeballs. He stares up at Baekhyun. For a long while. Baekhyun only loosens his hold after a few breaths - which Baekhyun feels under his  _ thighs _ , because they’re on Park’s  _ chest _ – as it is finally silent.

Baekhyun is suddenly very warm, a warmth stemming far from his skin and dispersing like wildfire. He swallows. “Now sleep,” he orders, jumping off him, and back to his side of the bed. He pulls the duvet over his head, and closes his eyes. And tries to sleep.

Minutes pass, and other than a bit of rolling, Park hasn’t made any other sound or movement. Even more minutes pass.

Baekhyun isn’t asleep. He pulled himself to the edge of the edge of the edge of the bed, and Baekhyun is all about being edgy, but not  _ this _ kind of edgy, where he’s basically perpendicular with the abysm under, threatening to fall, and then –  _ why _ does he need to do this? This is his bed, Park is just an intruder to be tolerated. He’s not about to sabotage his very important sleep because of him. Oh hell  _ no _ .

So he turns. And Park is… fully asleep, two hands sandwiched together and snuck under his face. Which is soft. And as he breathes, his lips have a jiggle, like he’s made of jellified bone broth after a night of chilling. The kind to be cut up and put into soup dumplings. The colouring book called, they want their Sleeping Beauty back. Not that Park is beautiful, this is  _ not _ what Baekhyun means.

He looks at him with bitterness. So Park  _ can _ sleep, and Baekhyun  _ can’t _ ? Oh no no no, it can’t be. No way Park beats him at sleep.

Baekhyun, still facing him, closes his eyes, and pours all of the determination he has left in him into falling asleep. And he’s Byun fucking Baekhyun, of course he succeeds.

  
  
  
  


We’re not going to talk about the way they woke up. Baekhyun refuses to think about it. 

But know that Baekhyun’s nostril was  _ somehow _ hooked on one of Park’s teeth. 

  
  


Despite the awkward, should not be mentioned, nor thought about ever again start of the day, prolificity happens! Park takes pictures, and as he chats with the lady at the mini market right next to the Klub (Baekhyun gave up on that name entirely) as to what usually goes on in there, who goes, how much they stay. She has a lot to say. In thanks, they buy their breakfast from her.

Then they keep on surveying that garage. There’s a building nearby whose rooftop has a tall ledge. They climb up there and wait. And wait. And wait. Until someone shows up. It’s a good enough of an angle that they can see inside the garage, and yes, that looks like a banknote mill. He takes as many photos as he can. 

On the way back to Seoul, Baekhyun doesn’t turn green at all. 

 

After coming back from the trip, Baekhyun worked tirelessly with Jongdae and Kyungsoo on writing and developing and editing. Baekhyun has all the necessary tricks up his sleeve to adjust contrast and fade the noise in the background to make sure those pictures really  _ pop _ , because damn, he got some good shots. 

And along with a lot of work and tiredness, goes to drink. And Baekhyun downed god knows how much makgeolli cause’ it is strawberry flavoured and Baekhyun, before he is a human, and a journalist, he is a strawberry, and drinking strawberry flavoured things fortifies his strawberriness. So Baekhyun is absolutely not sober anymore, and it is for a good cause. 

And suddenly, a crisis hits him. The memories hit him. That laughter. And the squeegee face. And the everything.

Despite how forbidden this is, despite how it shouldn’t be allowed to thrive in his thoughts, his mouth is burning, and his heart is burning. So, not getting up from his chair, Baekhyun propels himself with his feet towards Kyungsoo. The legs of the chair screech on the floor, though not very loud, but it might be loud, because his ears feel more than a little stuffy, and both Kyungsoo and Jongdae might be looking at him in horror as he locomotes like giardia across the office.

At last, he docks at destination. He touches his face to make sure he has a smile on. It’s there. Baekhyun shouldn’t be going into this without a smile.

On his desk, Kyungsoo has a paper cup. Of fucks. It even has a little label around it,  _ the F cup _ , like a leash of his pet of daily interest. Every day, he puts in there an imaginary, limited number of fucks. After they run out, he cannot be arsed about anything. It’s a good system. It keeps him sane, he said.

Baekhyun peeks inside. There is absolutely nothing. Good.

“Sooooo,” Baekhyun drawls, folding his arms on the desk and supporting his head in them.

Kyungsoo grins at him. Like he is obligated to. “Soooo what?”

“You missed an o,” Baekhyun says. “It was  _ sooooo _ .”

Kyungsoo looks at him. Patient. Because he can tell Baekhyun chickened out of saying what he ruined the floor to get here to say.

Baekhyun licks his lips. They already don’t taste like strawberries anymore. He licks them a few more times.

“Sooooo,” he restarts, “I think Park is fucking with me.”

Kyungsoo is silent for a few more of Baekhyun’s obsessive lip licks. “Oh really,” he says. His eyebrows do a thing. “How?”

“He’s just—” Baekhyun’s mind isn’t functioning. He tries to run the trouble-shooter, but that doesn’t work either. 

“You wanna say that he’s not a dick.”

“No, he is a dick!” Baekhyun says. His dick-ness never diminished, no. “But like…a  _ civil _ dick?” 

Kyungsoo’s lips purse. Or handbag. His lips handbag. Baekhyun is drunk, not that he would admit it, the previous statement doesn’t exist, please don’t squint.

“And what does that mean?” Kyungsoo ask.

Baekhyun stares at him. And then stares down. And then at him again. 

He pouts. Baekhyun is a pout. Pout Baekhyun. Mr. Byun Pout, investigative strawberry journalist extraordinaire.

“I don’t know,” he says. 

Well this conversation is going nowhere, Baekhyun has no idea where he wanted to get with this. He just had something to say, and he doesn’t know what that is. So he can’t say it. And he also can’t be free of it.

“We’ll leave it at this then,” Kyungsoo says. 

Baekhyun feels dismissed. Because he  _ is. _

But for now, maybe it’s better this way. 

  
  
  
  


Baekhyun started the next day by eating a whole pot of stew by himself. Mouthful by mouthful, he waited for his hangover to wilt, but it didn’t, so he ended with a bloated stomach and bloated face, and bloated mind and a very much intact hangover. Baekhyun is basically a balloon, kids should kick him around.

But this is also the day they have to get some pictures of Park Minhyo in the Sky Lounge. Sehun and Jongin looked through all the publications, asked everyone in the vicinity, and they have not found a single shot of him being there. Surely, eyewitnesses would normally be enough, but those who saw it are either the clients or the neighbours around, travelling through grapevines, but it won’t pack as much of a punch as having him smack on the front page.

The judge wrote them that it is urgent that they get to it as soon as possible. So it has to be tonight, because it is Friday night, and there’s a concert by a singer literally everyone and their pig knows: Chen. Baekhyun might also be lowkey rhapsodic to maybe get to hear him, because he has been a closeted fan ever since he first heard him sing. The tickets were sold out a long time ago, but Sehun managed to get two from a scalper. Baekhyun is surprised he managed that sort of connection, given all he ever seems to be doing is brood, snark, and hug Kyungsoo.

Anyway, this is a big, good opportunity. For lunch, Baekhyun has another potful of stew, and lastly, his ears stop ringing at random.

Park comes, with a rented car, to pick him up. It’s for façade. When he opens the door, Baekhyun gives him a once over. He is dressed…almost presentably. He doesn’t immediately want to look away from him.

“I might just not be embarrassed to be seen in public with you, for once,” Baekhyun comments, on his last attempts at tucking his huge food baby into his trousers. They’re silk, deep burgundy slacks that make his ass look bomb. If even for a second Chen will lay eyes on him, Baekhyun wants his assets presented nicely. Or something.

He checks his cameras one more time. Two of them for him, and the third, he hands to Park.

“Where do I put it?” he asks, holding it awkwardly in his hands.

Baekhyun stares at him. Not like he doesn’t know it has to be concealed, because the security will be tighter than ever given they have the star there. And also it’s exactly this chaos that they’re betting on to shield them. 

“Where do you think,” Baekhyun deadpans. He feels one of the buttons of his shirt struggling, right at the apex of his balloony tummy. He really should’ve aided this with a digestive.

Park moves it from one hand into the other. He puts it on the inside of his jacket. Which is very thin, and that squared shape is visible from the fucking moon. He looks helplessly at Baekhyun.

“Got any other ideas?” he asks. Baekhyun can’t tell if he’s dumb or if he’s playing dumb. Probably a bit of both.

Park, slowly, shakes his head at him. 

Baekhyun suspires, then, as bluntly as possible, points towards Park’s dick. 

His eyes biggen. “I don’t think it will fit,” he says, voice the smallest it has ever been.

Baekhyun, who was in the midst of turning away to finish dressing up, stops in his tracks. “Excuse me, what?”

Park makes some obscure gestures around his hips. “There won’t be enough space for the…two…of them at once.”

Baekhyun can’t believe this. “Do you want me to demonstrate that there is?” he asks, eyebrow high. He is absolutely not hesitating to jam his hand in there to show him how it’s done.

Park furls up, hands up. “No, oh my god, no.” 

“Then you’re going to suck it up, and put it in there.”

Park looks away. Then looks back at Baekhyun. He nods, terse, lips tight.

“Can you fit it?” Park suddenly asks.

Baekhyun tongues his cheek. His own cheek, not Park’s. He turns away, to pick out his hat for the evening. He doesn’t reply to that, because he can most definitely fit  _ both _ of them in there. 

This was supposed to be a conversation about cameras, not about dick size innuendoes. Regardless, it is futile, for this is not representative of their measurements once erect. 

“You’ll see,” Baekhyun replies.

“I don’t want to  _ see _ ,” Park grumbles, but he’s with his back to Baekhyun, and he seems to be doing what Baekhyun asked of him.

Baekhyun looks at the clock again. It is time to leave. They will have to queue for a while. It’s a shorter of a wait than he expected, but longer than he wanted. It’s uncomfortable. They just need to get through the door, and after that, they can take them out.

Better to have dicky cameras than to have no cameras. 

Baekhyun is amazed that Park doesn’t complain even once, but he does make a delighted sound once they enter. 

Baekhyun can only enjoy a brief fanboy moment, then it is wondering about, mapping out the whole hall. It’s full, which is perfect, Baekhyun is but another ant in the myriad. Now this might not be as valid, because this is an event that many important people came to, many of which aren’t regulars and aren’t associated with any of the nasty trades. But it is the perfect time to make connections and to learn the place. Baekhyun takes photos until he runs out of film. 

He finds Park, and they have a little break before leaving as they listen to Chen. “Holy shit he really looks exactly like Jongdae, just with much better hair,” Baekhyun remarks. Park eagerly agrees with him. 

 

Once in the car, “I want to see them now,” Park says. His shirt is open up top, his energy anarchic, vivace, and Baekhyun feels a bit of that too.

They drive straight to The Clandestines office, and into the darkroom. It’s four in the morning, but it’s summer, and the sun will be rising soon. Baekhyun pulls the curtain over the small window.

He doesn’t know how much Park can see. Baekhyun is more accustomed to the dark than the average person, but while he does pace a bit, he doesn’t hit anything. He also asks what Baekhyun is doing, what liquids these are, what he is pouring over the film, how this projection is adjusted, how the photographic paper works – magic, Baekhyun replies, because he’s too buzzed and too excited and too tired all at once to remember the whole chemistry thing, not that he doesn’t know it.

Park only nears him once he turns on the lamp after the film has been processed. He makes grabby hands at it too, as he looks at the tiny negatives. “Oh, this is good,” he says, showing one to Baekhyun. That one is the jackpot.

Once Baekhyun pulls back the curtain, and lights up the lamp. He lets Park arrange them to dry. He opens the window so the breeze can blow in. 

And as the light pours in as well, they can see the pictures. And they’re good ones, for while they don’t have any of Park Minhyo, they do have some of Ji Myeongsu, and Jeon Seojin, and Lee Chaemun, and Bae Mina, and a plethora of other important names. What’s important about this is that they’re  _ together _ , a close-knit group on occasion divided into smaller ones. But their closeness is apparent. 

Baekhyun’s eyes stray from the pictures for a second, and he catches onto Park’s smile. 

He can’t stop looking at it. Because it really is very very very so not pretty. He will cut it from there himself. Save it from Park’s ugliness. Adopt it as his pet. Or taxidermy it and put it on display. So many options. Prisonbreak, but it’s Parkbreak.

His smile is  _ not _ pretty, but Baekhyun  _ can’t _ stop looking at it. 

“Damn, we’re good,” Park breathes, very close to Baekhyun’s ear suddenly 

“Name me a better duo,” Baekhyun says, swallowing, then he yawns, and Park yawns, and then they can’t stop yawning, and still yawning, Park leaves, going home to sleep.

“Good morning,” he says, turning back to look at Baekhyun.

“Um,” Baekhyun bites his lip. “Good morning.”

He pads upstairs, throws off his clothes, and curls up in bed. Before he closes his eyes, he inspects the merry, jumpy sunrays flowing through his curtains. It does seem to be a good morning.

 

They have plenty of info about the money factory, the head of it, the person who seems to be the distributor of the drugs, and a confession of a producer who was made an offer to buy more, who is just a consumer, and willing to cooperate with the law if necessary. 

It is enough for now. 

They go to the Supreme Court to meet with the judge. Like the last time, they make a presentation of the new discoveries. While not a huge leap, it is progress. Park, also like last time, makes a whole show out of their adventures. 

The judge is amused – he seems to be a kind-hearted man – but regretfully tells him that this is not enough for the case, but it is sufficient for another round of buzz. The interest has almost died down, and now it is the perfect time to revive it, and make it stronger than ever. The development of the otherlings is nice, but the judge wants the most dirt on Park Minhyo. 

“Don’t hesitate to reach out to me if there’s any danger,” he says when they get up to leave. “This has put you in an unsafe position from the beginning, and you will be provided with security if you ask for it.”

“I mean,” Park beings. “I don’t think we’re gonna die.”

The judge laughs, lumpy, but tepid. “That would be too much of a guess to be a risk worth taking.”

Baekhyun slides his hand in his pocket. He has a negative in there, and he thumbs the edge of it. It nicks into the skin. “We’ve already taken it,” he says.

At The Clandestines, they also have to prepare the issue for this month. It won’t mention a single word about this case, as they’ve agreed on. They will move on as if nothing happened. All the work is now happening at The Blazing Moon, while they only have to prepare their regular.

Baekhyun went to Papa to pick up his comic – something vaguely pornographic involving carrots and househusbands that Baekhyun laughs at until he tear up, and he also updates him on the quest. Papa drinks two beers and insists on Baekhyun to stay with him for dinner.

When Baekhyun gets back, Jongdae is typing away, eyes closed again. He peeps at the paper coming out of the rollers – taxes on grains might rise along with the a foreign consortium buying trading rights with the biggest farmers on their land. To Baekhyun, this stuff is pretty complicated, but to Jongdae it is the easy-peasyest thing. He gives him a five second shoulder massage and goes to check up on Kyungsoo too. Sitting is literally the worst thing for you, he writes. Get up and walk around for a little, do some stretches, your ass wasn’t meant to sit down all day. Baekhyun doesn’t give a crap about that, really. 

It’s a light day for once.

Baekhyun doesn’t know why he feels so restless. 

  
  


I t is now the third time Park has knocked on his official door. Baekhyun knows his pattern. It’s four knocks. The first one distanced from the other three, which come quick and assured.

Under his arm, a bag. In the bag, the draft. Baekhyun didn’t think it will be done so soon. He was expecting it tomorrow night, which is why he’s currently with his hair tied up and a face mask on – as he has received the parcel from his mother today, and Baekhyun will always trust any skin potion she makes.

Now that he knows Jongin and Sehun, he can tell exactly who wrote which column. And then the ones written by Park. He’s a good writer, at ten at night, sleepy but excited, related but tense, and with a face mask on, Baekhyun can admit. And when he sees that at the very beginning, he’s giving credit to The Clandestines, and most importantly to him for starting this journey, Baekhyun is more than pleased.

He makes a few amends, mostly at layout and wording, spicing up some things. He wants some pictures bigger. There’s no comic in The Blazing Moon, but there are a few jokes. Baekhyun laughs, and folds the draft closed. 

Park makes no move to get up yet. He’s intently, keenly staring at Baekhyun. His expression is indescribable.

“What?” Baekhyun asks.

“Can I have some of that?”

“Of what?”

And Park vaguely points towards Baekhyun’s face. It takes him a while to get it, and, “Oh.”

His mama didn’t raise him a rude little shit, and if someone is in need of a little facial care, Baekhyun will not be stingy about it.

This is how Park ends up prostrated on his couch, face mask on, as Baekhyun fumbles about his film tapes, because Jongdae always forgets to put them back in the box after movie night, and Baekhyun has to put them in the projector one by one to figure out which one is which.

Aome are funny. And Park laughs, harder and softer, with his fartulent heaves. Which is flatulent, but there’s a bit of overuse of this term already. Baekhyun is looking forward to calling him gaseous digestive by-product. If that will come. For now, he stays until the mask dries up, and until Baekhyun’s tapes are organised and back on their shelf.

“Um,” he says, “bye.”

“Bye.”

And as the door closes, Baekhyun grumbles to himself, “Bye? Not even a good night? Is he friends with me or what, what is bye, bye, bye,” Baekhyun rambles, pinching Bobochu’s. “Bye.”

Baekhyun wakes up. And inhales.

It smells of sweet,  _ sweet _ chaos.

Bottle that shit, it tops even the most exquisite fragrance. Baekhyun is ready to drown in it. 

He smiles, gets out of bed, puts a shirt on, and goes downstairs to pick up his issue of The Blazing Moon from the doormat. He then sits at his kitchen table, and as he sips his tea, leaves through it feigning shock.

The whole city is now ass up, and Baekhyun couldn’t be enjoying it more.

 

As their agency is being severely ambushed with letters and other reporters and a few perhaps-hard-to-refuse presents (read: bribes) and more than a couple threats, ranging from subtle to  _ we’re gonna guillotine you _ , it’s no surprise that Park and his tol squad is keeping as far away from it as possible.

In that endeavour, they are now refuging in Baekhyun’s living room, sheepishly invading their movie night. It is not a bunker by any means, but nobody threw stones at their window, so they’re marginally better off.

Sehun en-pretzels Kyungsoo on the floor immediately, and Jongin in turn en-pretzeled Sehun, and they made an odd third-wheely centipede of comfort. Baekhyun doesn’t judge, but maybe he judges a little. Alas, it is a fortunate arrangement, for he only owns enough couch for three people, and double the people means double the couch, which Baekhyun doesn’t have.

As it is, Jongdae is doing his cuddly gymnastics as usual, all the pillows to him, so the last two spots on the couch are occupied by him and Park.

Baekhyun has been many kinds of close with him, but never this kind of close. This is a thigh-to-thigh kind of close. And Baekhyun finds it very hard to not think about that. He squirms, and measures aligning his knee, then aligning his hip, and then the middle ground, but the point is that no matter the position, his thigh is still shorter. Baekhyun is shorter than him from any and all perspectives, but he never felt so…out-thighed. There is such thing as having too much of a good thing, but that doesn’t apply to Baekhyun’s thighs, and he never felt like he had too little thigh, but now he does, and he really doesn’t need this sort of body negativity in his head when there’s a whole movie rolling in front of him to focus on.

He slides forward little by little, until his knee pokes out farther than Park’s. A won battle. While the war is far from won, Baekhyun calls it quits for now, and turns back to the movie.

They brought the tape themselves, Jongin, naturally, managing to drop it right before it went into the projector, but it did not break, and that was enough of a success to trigger a mini dance from him. Adorable. Baekhyun wants three of Jongin in his pocket at all times.

He looks at the film. It’s a thriller. But a bad thriller, with a villain that is laughable at best.

And laughing does Park do. It’s really not  _ that _ funny, but Baekhyun doesn’t manage to count two seconds of silence between his guffaws. Granted, the others are laughing as well, including himself, but Baekhyun can  _ only _ hear Park. Probably because he’s the closest. And loud as fuck. He has the lungs of an industrial windstorm and Baekhyun has seen watermelons smaller than his mouth (and not when they’re baby watermelons, but when they’re adult watermelons) so it is no surprise that his laughter would be proportional with its components.

Then he  _ slaps _ Baekhyun. On the thigh. As he’s laughing. And looking at him, his face upheaving in an unprecedented orogenesis of amusement, eyes slit-y and glittering. Light from the lamp burning on the little table next to the couch hits his face, shaping dollops of brilliance on the heights of it.

Baekhyun stares. And stares. Long after Park turned back to watching the movie. Baekhyun stares until he can’t see anymore.

For the first time Park doesn’t look like a deformed, undersaturated nipple. Maybe. And it’s funny, and everyone else is laughing – especially Kyungsoo now – so Baekhyun laughs too, because ain’t Park with his gigantic smiles and gigantic laughter and gigantic happiness about to trample with his gayety.

And as they stand, preparing to leave, they all say in a chorus, “Thank you for having us!” 

“My pleasure!” Baekhyun responds, perfunctory.

Then the house is empty. Kyungsoo and Jongdae are still here, but it feels empty. 

“That was weird,” Baekhyun comments, starting to rearrange the pillows on the couch. 

Kyungsoo gives him a weird look. Like truly weird, a movement and pull that shouldn’t’t be doable with his face structure. “That’s one way to put it.”

  
  


As all miracles only last three days – and in this case, the hype has settled into speculation now that the gross intel has been seared on all possible sides, it is time to get back to it. Baekhyun would’ve liked a little more leisure time, and pouts when he descends into the office, yawning, to already see Kyungsoo Jongdae Sehun Jongin crouched over the huge table newly erected in the middle of their office, and Baekhyun omitted the commas because he has seen this quartet together so often that he just accepts them as a bundle.

Jongin spots him first, and he smiles, and says “Hyung!” and comes to grab his hand – gently, fingers lax, but their curvature strict, skin soft, 10/10 Baekhyun would like Jongin to grab his hand again – and drags him to the table, also gently. Baekhyun is sleepy, so he swoons. More than a little. Because Jongin is just irresistibly swoon-able like that. When he manages to take his eyes off him, he looks at what’s spread out on the table. That board they started out with has spilled over soon thereafter, and has now consumed every available flat surface. While there are still small gaps left to be filled in, the biggest one yet is the one in the centre, a cavernous prolapse of the unknown. It winks at Baekhyun.

Just then, Park enters as well, a huge paper bag filled with something sweet-smelling. It’s rice donuts, and Baekhyun stuffs two in his mouth, burns his tongue, yelps, sighs, and donutily mutters, “Let’s do this shit.”

No matter how much they tried to avoid it, it is obvious now that the best way of getting proof is to be actual clients and purchase whatever horrors they offer at their horror boutique.

Now, is it hard to identify the editor-in-chief of The Blazing Moon? Of course not, being that he’s oversized in every way imaginable, which makes him stand out, which makes him memorable, so for sure there are some people who saw him go both in and out of The Blazing Moon, and in and out of the Sky Lounge.

However, unlike the expectation, there isn’t much of a witch hunt on his head. These kids are too big to care about some measly newspaper. Not like there haven’t been attempts at uncovering them before, not like the law hasn’t been after them from the get go. And if the publication didn’t reveal enough to have them arrested, they’re still safe. That arrogance will absolutely bite them in the ass, they just don’t know it yet.

So Park just slapped a fake moustache on, and he is unrecognisable.

Baekhyun might’ve cracked up at him the moment he saw him presenting as his character – normal rich dude whose barber hates him.

“It suits you,” he said, and Park slapped another stache on his forehead, to serve as an extended fringe to his fringe.

They rehearse that enactment they devised a long time ago, of being partnered because of petrol, Baekhyun owning the barrels, and Park owning the refinery. They go too deep into it, perhaps, because they end up quarrelling over the imaginary profit margin, and how Baekhyun would be ripped off in this instance, and he isn’t tolerating that. Park accuses him of a possible nation-wide economic collapse. Jongdae barely manages to stop them from slitting each other’s throats.

 

It’s hard, but not that hard. Because no matter how high end the club is, how does one enter it?

That’s right, through a fucking door.

How hard could it be to enter through a door? Not very hard, because the first time they go, they get Kyungsoo and Sehun drunk and have them spat right at the entrance, lover’s spat gone risqué, and there was a kiss, and Baekhyun cannot get it out of his head because they should have absolutely not have gotten that far in such a short period of time, and maybe Baekhyun feels betrayed that Kyungsoo fell for the enemy, but the point was that they opened the door, entered, bam! They’re inside. This whole thing really isn’t that complicated, Baekhyun just complicates it to look a little cooler, because he’s the hero and he’d be a lame hero if he wasn’t cool, you know.

This is the first thorough inspection of the place. It’s dark, because clubs think hating light is a personality. But Baekhyun’s eye is well trained for this, and in two rounds of the whole floor, he has mapped it out. The lesser the entrances the better, of course. Baekhyun hopes maximum five of them. They don’t need to actually become regulars; they just need to pretend. Make friends. And flirt with anyone and everyone, including the beer bottles.

Luck is on their side because they end up in a booth with Jeon Seojin, one of the actors known to be a coordinator of the drug branch – when he cannot win his way into movies with actual talent, he bribes them with spices. Baekhyun almost can’t blame him, because if he himself was that untalented, he might’ve ended up in the same place.

They are offered alcohol before they’re asked who the fuck they are. Baekhyun almost slips his real name, before he makes up another one because he forgot the pre-made-up one, which is Seo Ddalki. Baekhyun can finally come out as the strawberry that he is, it is truly liberating.

Seojin laughs, drinks, encourages them to drink, which they do sip, just a little, because the moment he begins to make some  _ offers _ , they might become so excited they sure as hell would’ve ended up spilling about how they’re undercover journalists about to jail his ass. Which would’ve been, to say the least, detrimental.

Park ends up taking pictures of a few hallways secluded at the back. None of the doors are labelled, but they are guarded vehemently. Baekhyun had the recorder on him, a new model financed by the judge, and as they have tested it, the sound is crystal clear, thank lord, because Jeon Seojin more or less spilled the tea on Ji Myeongsu.

They leave along with him, as he got drunk off his ass and started pouring all his family hardships on Park. Then he also poured the contents of his stomach on him. Baekhyun also got some concurrent splatters.

Despite all this, this first infiltration is a decided success, Baekhyun concludes on the way back home as he listens to what he caught on tape. They listen to it multiple times because it is a long journey, and by the time they reach Park’s building, he’s yawn more than he is a person, but it is happy, accomplished yawning.

Repeat this whole thing two more times, but only on the third do they find Lee Minhyo there. It’s his own damn club, he should be showing up more often, Baekhyun mused. But he is absolutely elated to finally catch him.

Baekhyun expected him to look more…intimidating. But no, he is just a gelatinous old man with a mouth full of fake teeth and entitlement. Park immediately gets in conversation with him, starting out innocent, about how he is flattered to be in the presence of  _ the _ Lee Minhyo.

He’s trying to be suave with him. Baekhyun knows graters smoother than this.

But there isn’t anyone who doesn’t enjoy a thorough round of ass kissing, and it’s as if Park has his pants down and is anilingusing his ossified asshole. Baekhyun is more and more impressed as the night progresses, which is them sitting at a table with him, sipping gin, and Chanyeol laughing as he arduously tells the story of how he’s now banned from Japan.

“Been a little naughty,” he ends, in Japanese. They didn’t forge their identities that far. This is an all-in-one fraud, and Park is taking it seriously.

“Would be a pity to have our business hindered because of some child’s splay,” he adds, stretching back, and sipping his drink.

Lee Minhyo isn’t a man of many words, his character an ambivalence of straight-faced don’t-give-a-fuck-ness and uncontrollable laughter and animosity. But what is clear thus far is the fact that he doesn’t sell anything to people he feels he doesn’t have more use out of other than just payment. And what they have (supposedly) are relations, mostly overseas (because these are harder to track down). Baekhyun keeps lying as well, as it progresses to one of those guarded rooms in the corridor. This one turns out to have a baduk table, nothing else notable about it. Thank fuck Papa obligated him to play with him so often; he’s now lowkey a master. All old men like baduk, and a good game can squeeze even the unsqueezable out of them.

Thusly, close to sunrise, and through the wisps of his cigar, Lee Minhyo confesses that he operates with Japanese  _ produce _ (Baekhyun barely manages not to throw up) because of  _ patriotism _ .

“They did so much wrong, and now pretend they don’t have the mouths to admit to it,” he says.

And they’ve recorded all of this.

 

This week, movie night gets cancelled. Instead, all six of them gather at Kyungsoo’s house for barbeque. It would’ve been best if Kyungsoo was in charge of grilling, but Kyungsoo is nowhere to be found. Sehun is also nowhere to be found. And Baekhyun doesn’t want to know where that nowhere is.

On Jongin’s watch, a piece of meat catches on fire, and he giddily looks at it as it carbonizes.

Jongdae is not here to do any work, he’s just here to be  _ served _ .

Thus, the duty falls on him and Park. And it soon transforms into a contest. Then into a pile of deliciousness and tumid tummies. Tumidies.

It isn’t better than a movie night, but it is not a bad night, maybe.

Jeon Seojin and Baekhyun are basically best friends by now. He’s the one who made it so they don’t need any special effects to get into the Sky Lounge as they please now, and though the closeness built between them is false, Baekhyun cannot deny that he feels sort of bad for the guy. He seems greatly tormented by loneliness and other societal maladies. And that sucks. But then Baekhyun remembers that he’s also a human trafficker and deserves to be rat food just about now.

Until now Baekhyun never felt that Seojin suspected him. Mostly because 99% of the time he’s too drunk to have any perceptiveness functional in him, and Baekhyun is also a damn good actor, if he could say so himself.

This changed a few seconds ago when everything escalated, and Baekhyun was grabbed and dragged some  _ place _ where someone would love to  _ please _ him. Mayday, mayday, mayday, because they’re not equipped for  _ that _ . Baekhyun, in his panic, first pretends to be too drunk to even walk, but that doesn’t work, because just a while ago, he was the one supporting Seojin. Park is also frozen, bumbling one thing or another, trying to stop Seojin from going deeper and deeper into the corridor, and had it been another circumstance, they’d be thrilled to get to the bottom of this, but they’re out of film and tapes for the night, and they could just talk to someone from behind the door, but it’s unsure what state they’d be in, and they could get ratted out.

All in all, this is not the night.

Seojin’s other hand is on the handle of a door when Baekhyun has to blurt, “Women aren’t really my indulgence.”

Seojin stops, and sways on his feet. His eyes are red. He’s ingested other toxicants aside from alcohol, Baekhyun has photographs of that.

“What?” he slurs.

Baekhyun snatches his hand out of his hold. Park is now behind him. “My preference lies on the other side.”

Seojin frowns. “What?”

“I’m not a cat person.”

“What?”

“I really like cucumbers.” This boy is denser than oatmeal, when the fuck is he gonna get it, Baekhyun can only be so civil.

“What?”

“I adore having my anus ploughed.”

“What?”

Good, fucking god.

“Dicc is life.”

“What?”

Just when Baekhyun is about to punch him in the face, Park winds up his arms around him and  _ kisses _ him.

Baekhyun has very very good eyesight, as told enough, but he didn’t see  _ this _ coming.

It’s not a peck either. It is a kiss. A kiss  _ kiss _ . Park’s lips are warm and kind as they nudge Baekhyun’s, and his hands, slowly, come to cup the sides of his face and his neck.

While Baekhyun is happy to be saved from that situation, this might be shaking him even more. His skin is pricking, and his mouth is especially prickling. Is Baekhyun being kissed by a rosebush or what.  

But he can’t just…stay there and take it. Baekhyun feels overwhelmed, and he feels that he should overwhelm back. Park can’t be the only one doing the overwhelming, not under Baekhyun’s lips.

So Baekhyun grips his waist, raises on his tip toes, and kisses this eager tea-sodden biscuit  _ back _ .

Unsurprisingly, Park’s technique is a magniloquent fiasco. It is accompanied by unnumbered touches, though Baekhyun should’ve kept count, for if this is a competition, and he must know the score of who kissed more, or mannier, and a kiss is defined by each break, which means the more reprieves, the more kisses. But also, they do not break apart a lot, because the kiss belongs to the one who initiates it, which means any second apart is a race for who kisses the other again, and Baekhyun feels like he hasn’t tasted air in centuries and he is now back to the stone age era just to be delivered into this world via Park’s tongue, which has now gotten between his lips. A wiggly, slimy snake on a treasure hunt though Baekhyun’s gums, and okay, Baekhyun might be the forbidden fruit. But just a little forbidden. But Baekhyun is indefatigable, he can go on and on and on, or at least out-kiss Park. Given his stature, he must be energy inefficient, compared to Baekhyun, who is more compact, which means that Baekhyun can kiss him more, and better. Except for when Park does a thing, pressing Baekhyun the closest to him, and the circumlocutory movement of his tongue hastening, like he’s in traffic and Baekhyun’s mouth is the intersection. He needs his driving license revoked, this is unbearable, and Baekhyun wants more of it and his knees almost gives out. He  abruptly pushes himself away from Park.

Park seems  _ perfectly _ composed as he turns around and addresses Seojin, who has the very same demeanour as he did before. “When I said he is my partner, I meant my  _ partner _ ,” he says, and presses Baekhyun to his side.

Seojin frowns. And frowns. And frowns. What, do they have to fuck now to prove a point—

“Ohhhhh,” Seojin goes, finally.  _ Finally _ . “I get it man. Kinda weird, but I don’t know, I’ll have it for myself then,” he says, and enters the room, and Baekhyun whips out the mini camera in his pocket as fast as he can, as it  _ might _ have one negative left.

The silence descends upon them. It’s heavy. The heaviest.

Park lets go of him, turns around, and begins walking down the corridor. Baekhyun follows him. And keeps following him, in the very same silence, as they get out of the club, and go home.

On this route, Baekhyun’s house is first. They stop in front of it. More silence, this time disrupted by the roar of the cicadas.

“Sorry,” Park says at last. His arms are pulled close to his sides and his feet crossed, and he looks so…sorry. Truly apologetic. And Baekhyun feels a conflict like no other, because he doesn’t want Park to be sorry. For some reason? Feeling sorry just isn’t a pleasant sentiment all around.

“You did what you had to do,” Baekhyun says, clearing his throat.

Park’s eyes round. In fact, they’re never not round, but now they’re round and full of surprise and apology and a sot of overflowing kindness in them, and Baekhyun feels  _ so _ bad about this. When he shouldn’t be the one to feel bad. In fact no one should feel bad. This was a successful evening.

“But still…” Park says, minuscule, lips jutting out out out.

Baekhyun swallows, and doesn’t have anything to say, mind blank, and heart full. His mouth deserted; his tongue tacky. He turns around and steps up the stairs home.

It’s the next afternoon. Baekhyun’s eyes are closed. He doesn’t even bother to have them open anymore as he prepares the film. The alkaline scent wafts into the air.

The after flavour of his mouth lingers, camps out in there, brings tenants, a whole family, invades on and on, and Baekhyun can’t stop tasting it, and thinking about it, and being reminded of it. How does he put an eviction notice on his tongue? He must shoo this out, it is  _ illegal _ .

How dare he. Who allowed that. Absolutely no one.

Baekhyun will sue Park for kissual damages, this is unacceptable.

“Something happened?” Jongdae asks, eyes narrow at him. This is absolutely not the time for him to be observant.

Conversations with him are never fruitful because he’s not a frutescent tree from Kyungsoo’s orchard. But this question does come from the bottom of his heart (or ass of his heart, ha) and Baekhyun appreciates it. Though it makes him paranoid because on a regular day Jongdae is about as perceptive as a hammer, and the fact that he’s asking this means something is distinctly off with Baekhyun. Something very very off perhaps.

Baekhyun dips the paper a few more times into the tray to finish rinsing it off. Then dips it once more. “Such as?"

“I don’t know, you tell me?”

Honestly Jongdae sounds even more off than him, but Baekhyun is not about to ransack his soul like that.

But his mind chants Park kissed me Park kissed me Parkkissed me Parkkised Parkismme—

But he knows that Jongdae will a hundred percent ask, “but did he do it alone?”

And Baekhyun is not prepared to answer that. And maybe will never be.

They stay late in Oasis tonight, some of the party moved there as the second motherfucker (this whole ordeal is some sort of pyramid scheme of motherfuckers) is there and brought friends to recruit some innocent contributors. If they could be scouted into the rig as well, that would be fabulous. 

They get sold drugs, and Park has to pretend to be smoking it (he does a good job at it, and then at emulating the high too, despite having never experienced it before).  Then more drinks, and then the worst of it all, are shown some pictures. Pictures that shouldn’t have been taken, of people that shouldn’t have been there. Baekhyun keeps his face straight, and plays along.

Through the dancing – and there is a lot of it – Baekhyun passes Park all the bits sold to him, and he photographs them in the bathroom. They only need to be here a bit more, until the host is drunk enough to give into their rowdiness and ass kissing to spill what exactly Park Minhyo is handling. It’s difficult, and they have to do an emergency tape replacement in their recorders just before it gets juicy. 

But it does, finally, he says what bank Park Minhyo is using, what blackmail he has on them, where the drugs are produced – overseas – and who’s his link in Japan that he can make this trade. Then he gets even drunker, and is incoherent, and this is the moment Baekhyun grabs Park and they head out.  

There is no car tonight, there is walking, and they’re both actually so drowsy that don’t even realize they missed a street until, “Hey, this looks familiar,” Baekhyun squints at the door of his own house.

Park, though he has those long legs, barely managed to catch up with him. He thump thump thumps up behind Baekhyun. “Oh hey, you’re right,” he says, not sober, but this is genuine insobriety. He yawns, mouth a vortex, and tries to blink his eyes open. His home is six streets away.

Baekhyun doesn’t agree with this. But his kindness does. Park hasn’t stopped yawning, and he also cannot move his legs, he’s basically hammered, just perfect to night in some sewer. But Baekhyun really isn’t that mean.

He plucks the keys from his pocket, and pads up the few stairs. “Come on in,” he says, looking at Park’s swaying figure expectantly.

And to think of it, that night at the hotel in Incheon wasn’t traumatizingly awful.

Park frowns, blinks a few more times, and “Oh. Okay.”

So he…lets him in. To sleep. 

It doesn’t matter that Baekhyun had countless restless nights because of that  _ kiss _ . Now it truly doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s exhausted, and Park is exhausted, and Baekhyun’s bed is made, and invading, and without even quarrelling about who gets which side, they’ve already fallen into it, fallen asleep. 

  
  
  


“What the fuck,” says Kyungsoo.

“What the fuck,” says Sehun.

“What the fuck,” says Jongdae.

“What the fuck,” says Jongin. 

Baekhyun blearily opens his eyes to see these four doofuses at the foot of his bed, eyes going back and forth between him and—

Actually there’s no back and forth because him and Park are a conjoined lump, limbs bewixt each other’s, barely covered by a thin sheet, as it is now past the peak of summer and nights are cold and Baekhyun didn’t bring out his thicker napery yet. Baekhyun’s head is on Park’s chest. Where his chest is. On his  _ tiddie _ . On his chest.

He slowly stirs awake too. Baekhyun watches him wake up. And says, “What the fuck.” 

And Baekhyun, to get along with the theme, also says, “What the fuck.” 

  
  
  
  


So Lee Minhyo  owns a whole lab overseas. They can’t go all the way there to investigate that, but if they reach the country, they must have some local organs as well. And what is obvious thus far is that, in this, too, he owns the whole production chain. From the plantation, to the lab, to the logistics. This guy really isn’t playing around. 

Jongdae found out that there is a separate establishment only linked to this lab. It’s a secluded, unkempt little pod full of addicts. There is no glamour here. A few people operating at the Sky Lounge have been seen around however, which is why Jongdae thinks they should go see what’s up. 

There is no need for disguise now. Baekhyun grabs Park and they go together. They pretend absolutely nothing happened. Because technically, that is true. They had to enact all sort of things while undercover and they were not brought up again. No biggie. 

The sleepover doesn’t count. Baekhyun just shared his bed with someone sleepy. No biggie here either. 

What they discover there is not very notable. There is smoke and idleness. The place seems stopped in time. The people are mostly unresponsive, lost in their enjoyment. 

One guy however grabs onto Park’s hand, and says, “I want some.” His eyes are vacant. Baekhyun has never seen a gaze like this. 

Park shakes his head and removes himself from the grasp.

They get out. Air has never tasted fresher. 

There have been many times along the way when they went places and found nothing. It’s normal. But now it is just a little bit sad, for some reason. 

“Let’s go to Somin’s,” Baekhyun says. 

So they go to Somin’s and eat ice cream together.    
  
  


  
  


Jongdae and Jongin are in Incheon, putting together lists of names at the banknote mill, while Kyungsoo and Sehun are doing things Baekhyun doesn’t want to know about.    
Park has improvised a mini-desk for himself in the darkroom and is now writing, saying it aloud as he goes. Baekhyun is organizing and re-devolping some of the photographs that didn’t turn out so well. A good deal of them are blurry because there was no time to steady  or focus the camera in action.

Park’s presence here kind of annoys him. Also Baekhyun is kind of hungry cravey but doesn’t know what it is. Which makes for a bad mood. 

Park is writing about Jeon Seojin when he bursts into laughter. He hits the desk – and Baekhyun learned that he must hit something every time he laughs and if there nothing/no one around, he will hit himself. Like on the forehead. No wonder his mind is made of mash potatoes.

“What?” Baekhyun asks, not really wanting to ask, but it is obvious by the way Park stretches the sound that he wants to be asked so Baekhyun asks only so he would shut the fuck up. 

“I can’t believe he bought that.” Park says.

He wants Baekhyun to ask one more thing. He considers resisting. “Bought what?”

“Bought…us?” Park says. He’s talking about the kiss. When Baekhyun thought they’ll  _ never _ talk about the kiss. 

“Indeed, Baekhyun murmurs, inwardly, viscerally, existentially screaming. “You were barely convincing in your passion.”

“That was but a little peck. A pheasant would’ve remained unimpressed.”

Taken aback, But more literally, because he’s leaning back, a conflict that is of opacity to Baekhyun. Baekhyun keeps clipping the fresh pictures to the string, as to make a clean edge.

“Well,” he begins. He runs a hand through his hair. It’s longer now, and thick, and with a wave at the very tips. Like the oh so gently put his fingers in the electric socket. Not a good look, Baekhyun means. He doesn’t want to run his hands through that luscious hair at all. “We weren’t quite in the circumstance where I could demonstrate my…prowess.” 

“Have you really even got any of that,” Baekhyun says, small, but there is a smidgen of derision in it. He hangs up the last picture. This one is a nice one, perfectly exposed, perfectly framed, of a certain actor stepping into the backseat of Lee Minhyo’s car. “We were lucky to be believed that time.” 

“And what part of that is  _ your _ merit? What was  _ your _ contribution?” Park asks, fed up.

Baekhyun should really stop talking. Honestly why is he even talking at this point. He shouldn’t have asked Park anything. He wasn’t even curious. And now they’re here, a tension so thick Baekhyun could cut it with a knife if he was about those cheap analogies, and it is still building, and growing, and  _ inflating _ , and  _ throbbing _ , just like, maybe, Baekhyun’s heart right now. “I was surprised,” Baekhyun argues. A severe understatement. 

Parks eyebrows tilt with dubiety. “During it  _ all _ ?”

Baekhyun pours the contaminated water from the rinsing tray into the bucket. He never disposes of it carelessly. He then turns towards Park. “It took me a while to realize what you were trying to achieve.”

“And for the rest?” 

Because there was…insistence. There was an attempt to show Seojin  _ real _ good what was going on. And there was success. Now this duel is about credit. And Baekhyun thinks Park doesn’t deserve so much credit, because Baekhyun…kissed…more? Quantitatively? Qualitatively? 

“I did contribute,” Baekhyun states. And it is a truth that cannot be rebutted. Baekhyun kind of contributed his ass off. And his lips off. 

“And are you disregarding  _ my _ contribution?” 

It’s near sundown, and though the window in the dark room is minuscule, the light burns through it bright, now licking at Park’s irises, turning them aural, molten. It’s poop brown, but golden, like battered, deep fried poop. Baekhyun doesn’t look away because looking away means losing.

“I just think you could do better,” Baekhyun says. “Much better.”

Why is Baekhyun still talking, someone stop him right now, this will end in a  _ catastrophe _ . 

Park is silent. And on fire. From the sun, not on a fire fire. Baekhyun expects him to start being cremated by this glow any time now.

“I think you were mediocre at best,” he says.

No way Baekhyun heard that right. No fucking way. “What?” he says, words spiny, for he has never, ever been this insulted, this humiliated, this undermined, and of everyone it’s from little spermatic woodpecker Park?

Park smiles at him, faker than this whole story, and steps in close to breathe in Baekhyun’s face. “I said what I said.”

Cue the aforementioned catastrophe, which is Baekhyun ferociously grabbing Park by the collar and showing him how a fucking kiss is executed.  

It lasts two hundred years, and breaks approximatively three pieces of furniture and six teeth. Clothes rip. It’s a catfight, but with lips, and tongues, and caresses. 

And the when Park is pressed on the table, Baekhyun almost fully over him, and Park is unable to reach to steal that kiss back, and make it his, Baekhyun looks down at him. The peaks of his cheeks embrowned, the dales pallid, and he looks like the bottom of third-grade burnt soup pot. And Baekhyun is satisfied. 

“I won, bitch,” he says, hands in Park’s hair, mouth over his.

“Won what?” he pants, breath syrupy, and after the flash of a simper, he reverses their position, and muffles Baekhyun’s lips with his own. 

And so it goes on for another two hundred years. 

  
  
  
  


This bring the tally up to four unspeakable things. Two sleeps and two kisses. Who won that battle from three days ago will remain a mystery. But they are professionals, very professional professionals at that, and thusly this doesn’t spoil their work.

They report to the judge how it is now harder to get into the Sky Lounge. They have been denied one time, the guard at the door saying there is a client in there who currently didn’t want them present. There are a few suspects as to who that client is, but the thing is that it seems the situation soured a little. 

“Wrap it up,” the judge says, “Find resolute evidence.”

They both know exactly what this means. And what they’ve been looking for all this time. They have found the object of all his frauds thus far, save for one, and it is the most gruesome, heart-breaking one. Baekhyun bows to the judge going out. 

Outside the Supreme Court, it’s cool, breezy. Autumnal, as it should be now. 

“Let’s end this shit,” Park says, crossing his arms. 

Baekhyun wants to ask why he’s trying to sound so deep with something like that, but he kind of agrees with him. “Yeah.” Pause. More pause. “Now take me on your bike, I don’t feel like walking back by myself.”

  
  
  
  


Jongin, at once, suggests they go to the Tea House, because, as he and Sehun have been guarding it even after they thought the evidence they could get from there was dried out. But turns out, it’s not. The rest of that building seems to be an apartment building, but it is not. They nearly never saw the same people going in and out of it, despite having keys. 

That is definitely fishy. 

“What’s in those rooms?” Kyungsoo asks Sehun, from Sehun’s lap. 

“No idea,” he replies, nearly  _ into _ Kyungsoo’s mouth. “The blinds are always, always down.”

“Steal a key, duh,” Jongdae says, rolling his eyes. He picks up his jacket and Jongin’s hat, and storms out in a blink. They wait, collectively trying to not lay eyes on the Sehun-Kyungsoo ensemble, because it is getting a little bit too graphic, despite the fact that they’re only conversing about the case.

It lasts a while, but still considerably less than any of them were expecting. Before sundown, Jongdae enters the agency with a key in hand. 

“Pickpocketing isn’t rocket science,” he explains, rolling his eyes once more.

“I love you,” Baekhyun says, jumping Jongdae.

  
  
  
  


That very night, they raid this so-called Tea House. Baekhyun didn’t even get to ask why exactly this place was on the radar in the first place, but he soon realizes why: they’ve barely entered and already seen a handful of faces frequenting the Sky Lounge. 

Curious, because this building is at the other side of the city, close to the periphery. The key is practically useless, because it says nothing on it, and all the doors look the same. They can’t just try each lock. Instead, they go down more and more corridors, noting how everything is so nondescript. Baekhyun can’t tell if this truly is a tea house, a hospital, a real estate agency. He hasn’t seen anyone pretending any sort of management. It seems to be open and free for use for whoever has a key. 

It takes another two equally curious but inconclusive visits before they find something.    
On the last floor, a door left ajar. It’s not one like the others. Jongin said he never saw anyone go in and out of that one. It never moved during his surveillance of it. 

It’s crates. An entire wall of wooden crates, staked up to the celling.

Park slides one out, takes the lid of—

“Oh my god,” Baekhyun gasps, covering his mouth. 

  
  
  
  


Sehun and Jongin help remove a couple of those crates out of the building. Baekhyun firmly advises them not to open them, not to look, they don’t need to see those photographs. Jongin hugs Baekhyun, tight and warm, and complies. They deliver those directly to the Supreme Court. 

Baekhyun doesn’t know why something like this would be stored there – it seems too reckless of a place, and the fact that the door was  _ open _ as well — it makes him ask too many questions around this seeming luck. 

But he doesn’t reach any consensus on that. 

  
  
  
  


This is the saddest possible success. On one hand, the mission can be declared complete. But it’s not really, and Baekhyun feels kind of scarred for life.

And this means a party at Kyungsoo’s house, because Baekhyun can’t be sad if he doesn’t remember what he’s sad for. Park is equally shaken by this, which means that he also drinks until he basically can’t stand.

Then it begins being funny. Because while he has been around a tipsy Park plenty of times thus far – there’s only so many  _ pretend _ sips of alcohol one can take – but now he is truly, really drunk. 

He’s a soft drunk. He has to lean on someone at all times. Once Kyungsoo shoos him away from Sehun’s shoulders, because they’re  _ his _ shoulders. Jongin is too busy dancing with Jongdae – and they’re good – to provide any shoulder support.

So that leaves just Baekhyun.

“No,” Baekhyun says, waving a finger at him.

Park pouts. “Why.”

“Because no.”

Park pouts harder. “Okay,” he says, and ambles away. He walks funny. He always walked funny, but Baekhyun never really laughed at it. It’s the funnies thing ever.

Baekhyun goes after him down the hall, just because he doesn’t have anything better to do. He catches up with Park, jumping on his back. He nearly topples over. “Okay, okay, you can use my shoulders,” he bellows, trying to pull the both of them upright. No way he’ll ever manage but that doesn’t mean he will stop trying. 

“Can I really?” Park asks enthusiastically, but doesn’t even wait for a reply before he dives right into Baekhyun’s chest.

“Those aren’t the shoulders,” Baekhyun mutters. He doesn’t dislike this. They keep swaying. It’s nice. 

“I’ll get to them later,” Park whispers. His voice is soft, mellow. Baekhyun never heard it this way – his timbre cannot permit it. But like this, it’s soothing. 

So they stay over each other, leaning on the wall, leaning on each other, swaying, supporting, until Baekhyun is flashed with a bout of clarity and he remembers that they have a rematch to take care of. Because oh no no no, Park  _ didn’t _ win that kiss. No. Baekhyun was not more of a mess than him, and he needs to be sure of this, needs Park to admit it, to give it to him like that.

“Park,” Baekhyun calls out. “The kiss,” he says, pulling Park’s head out of the crook of his neck. He holds his face in his hands. “Imma win now,” Baekhyun slurs, “Imma win so fucking hard,” he slurs even slurrier-er.

Park giggles, two giggles, and closes his eyes. “Win,” he says. 

It’s pretty, okay, it’s very very very pretty, all of him is very very very very pretty and soft and cute and beautiful and all the other basic adjectives, there, he’s pretty  _ as fuck _ , but that doesn’t mean Baekhyun hates him any less, because he really hates him  _ a lot _ . Which is why he  _ has _ to win this.

And  _ win _ does Baekhyun do. 

He employs every trick in the book (because there is a book about kissing, and yes, Baekhyun did read it) to kiss Park into oblivion. Their lips don’t get along at first, the way they pull at each other is dissonant, and it’s arrhythmic, but soon it settles. Soon Baekhyun takes when Park yields, and Park takes when Baekhyun yields, though there’s very little of that.   

Too soon comes a point when shit hits the fan though, which exists at this time, because it was invented in 1882 by Schuyler Skaats Wheeler in case you didn’t know, which means shit can totally hit the fan, and hit it properly, because Baekhyun is drunk and thirsty but not for water and not for more alcohol, but specifically for this nectarous, candied taste of Park – his teeth must be made of sugar, there is no other explanation – and his noises, which are smol and timorous, but some are big and plump and floofy and lustful maybe. Baekhyun is hot, hot as in he looks good, and hot as in physically warm, and then the other kind of hot, which also involves the bothered, and bothered as in a fever is building where it shouldn’t, aka between his fucking legs. And this is  _ the _ shit hitting the fan.

This transition from making out to win, to making out because it’s enjoyable, to making out because it’s arousing, and now augmenting that through closer and closer grins. The melic fitting of their bodies, their too searching kisses, the sways, the gasps. Baekhyun might appear vestal in his movements, but no, he has been initiated, and involved aplenty in carnal fulfilments. He’s this out of control because he’s drunk and horny and Park might be doing something very right when he cages him between his legs against the wall. It’s aggressive and brutish because as they treat everything else, this is kind of a dick-off where neither of them back down, and though it might feel good - so good, so fucking good, don’t stop, don’t stop – and Baekhyun loses himself sometimes, he still remembers that he’s doing this to  _ subjugate _ Park, and demonstrate that he can pleasure him until he’s but a pile of moans.

Despite his goal and continuous efforts towards it, Baekhyun is surprised when Park breaks the kiss to nestle in the valley of his neck, breathing hard, and pretty, and then kissing there as he grips Baekhyun’s hips. Something changes here. Honestly, they’re rubbing against each other so hard like they’re trying to polish each other’s cocks into diamonds or something, 

Then it happens. Something that Baekhyun doesn’t even realize at first. Park tremors and bites into Baekhyun’s shoulder, and holds him, and Baekhyun realizes…this seven legged ostrich just…came. Because of Baekhyun.

He hears ovation. He feels like he has to give a speech. This is higher and bigger than, like, the Oscars. Park just came because of Baekhyun. 

This made Baekhyun’s cock so hard it could be used as construction beam, it can sustain a whole fucking building right now, that hard he is. And he’s ready to burst as well. Eject that ish right out riffle style. 

He wants to whine to Park to keep on doing what he was doing, but this is when he pulls out from the crook of his neck and looks at Baekhyun. 

He’s pink. He’s scarlet, magenta, fuchsia, basically neon, fire engine red, CMYK 0 95 100 0, Pantone 485C, glowing from within with embarrassment, and it’s  _ blinding _ . The apogee of itself made him pale, unhealthsome, but now he’s besmeared with sweat, his gaze aglow, his lips worn, velveteen. And then the hiccups. It’s glorious. Or as glorious as a car choking to a stop in the absence of benzine. The most kaleidoscopic ejaculation that has ever graced the earth.

It is currently sopping through their closeness, humid, given it is dense, but spread out, copious. And Baekhyun. Just stays. And processes it.

“Oh,” Park says. 

He really inseminated his pantaloons because of Baekhyun.

Park breathes out hard, and then it dwindles, and dwindles as he comes down from the…coition. Suddenly, he gasps, detangles himself from Baekhyun, and skips away, Baekhyun’s belated shouts of his name falling on deaf ears.

  
  
  


Baekhyun wakes up hungover. 

Everything that happened last night crashes on him the moment he opens his eyes. 

He inhales, and bolts out of bed downstairs to Jongdae’s bookcase. 

He has brochure about meditation somewhere in there. He finds it, gives it a cursory read, bolts back up the stairs, makes his bed, settles in the centre of it with his legs crossed, and begins meditating. 

Don’t think about Park don’t think about Park don’t think about Park don’t think about Park 

don’t think about Park don’t think about Park don’t think about Park—

He sounded so beautiful when he came tho—

“Dammit,” Baekhyun mutters, tolling over, and burying himself into the mattress until he can’t breathe. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” 

  
  
  
  


He can tell Kyungsoo and Jongdae know something happened. They just keep looking at him, tilting their heads, looking some more, tilting in the other direction. They look like hungry puppies. Baekhyun has nothing to feed them. 

They pack up the files for him though, as they are to meet the judge today. 

_ They _ as in him and Park. 

“Don’t y’all wanna go with me?” Baekhyun asks before he reaches the door. 

Jongdae clicks his tongue. “Nope.”

“Nope,” Kyungsoo says as well.

“You’re a big boy!” Jongdae encourages, like Baekhyun is a tadpole scared by his own farts. 

Baekhyun hesitates. “I’m a big boy,” he whispers to himself, and steps out. 

  
  
  
  


It’s not that bad! 

The first thing Park does is put a stack of files in his arms because phew, those are heavy help me out here a little. And Baekhyun does. And it’s like they didn’t grind on each other last night! It’s like Park didn’t come because of him! It’s alright! 

It doesn’t matter that throughout the whole meeting they don’t make eye contact once. 

Because truly there are bigger matters at hand than a little jizz, that being Park Daehwi’s reaction when he picks up a certain photograph out of the ones Baekhyun took from the rooms in that corridor. 

“That’s the prosecutor in charge of this case,” the judge says. It sounds barren, desolated. 

“Oh shit,” Baekhyun says, after which he covers his mouth, because he’s not supposed to use profanities in the Supreme Court. 

“He’s there a lot,” Park cheeps in. Indeed, this guy is there often. Though he stays in the main hall just for a shot, after which he immediately goes to one of the rooms. He only appears in this picture because it is next to impossible to take any shots there. Not to mention, they only entered about four, which were mostly for  _ accompanied _ gambling. 

“It could be that…he’s investigating himself?” Baekhyun tries. 

Because no wonder, no ducking wonder this case never went anywhere if the person who should be condemning it in the first place is part of the clientele. 

The judge shakes his head. He puts the photograph, face down, on the desk. “No.” He shakes his head, eyes closed. “No,” he repeats. He seems to know something. Baekhyun will not doubt him. 

“Go on. We only need a bit more,” Park Daehwi says, taking a deep breath in. “You can prepare for publishing with what you have thus far. Be sensitive with the matter.”

Meaning the human trafficking bit, of which they found the evidence in the crates. That is truly delicate, because none of the victims should be named, or discovered. 

“Are we going with a third party for this or…?” Park asks. 

“Yes. I know you have someone in mind.” 

Mrs. Lee’s Morning Voyager. It is the second periodical Baekhyun is subscribed to, and perhaps his favourite publication of them all. 

“She’s trustworthy,” Baekhyun says. 

Park gathers the few duplicates he brought with them. They always bring him the original documents, but for some, they only have photographs, which aren’t as valid in court. 

“Take care of yourselves,” he says, seeing them to the door. They bow towards him, and head out. 

  
  
  
  


They stand in front of the court. Baekhyun’s office is on the right, Park’s office is on the left. 

“Um.”

“Um.”

“Um.”

“Um.

There’s a rock under Baekhyun’s foot. He plays with it with his sole.

“Um.” 

“I should go write.”

“I should go write too.”

“Um,” Baekhyun says. He kicks the rock away. “My typewriter is broken.” 

“Oh,” Park breathes. “Um. Sehun’s is the same model as yours.”

“Oh. Um.” Baekhyun turns towards him. “Can I use it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Then shall we….?” Park says, turning to the left. His lip trembles. His eyes are earnest.

“Um. Yes.”

  
  
  


Baekhyun is writes as fast as possible. The Morning Voyager publishes a Sunday earlier than theirs, and that’s less than a week and a half away. Baekhyun has already spoken to Mrs. Lee, who was more than happy to accept their instalment, especially after she found out her cheating jerk of a husband had some part in this whole mess. She said that she doesn’t want to get involved though, and that she will publish verbatim everything they send, feeling it is not her place to interfere when she doesn’t know the material. 

Thus, Baekhyun has been typing at full speed for a good few hours. He’s not comfortable typing on other kinds of typewriters, good thing Sehun is away trying to get his hands on some confidential cookie recipe for their cooking column and Baekhyun can use it. He just hopes none of Kyungsoo’s bodily fluids have somehow found their way onto the keys. Which, to his dismay, is greatly probable. Baekhyun is sure they reached at least, like, the sixty ninth base. 

He’s so focused that he hasn’t noticed the sound of Park’s own typing stopped a while ago.

“My name,” Park whispers from very close to Baekhyun. Baekhyun starts, hitting his knee on the underside of the desk. Then he pretends he meant to do that. He meant to smash his kneecap to see if it can endure it. Yeah.

“What about it, Park?” Baekhyun asks, insouciant, typing even faster as to not lose his train of thought. Park doesn’t reply until Baekhyun finishes his whole paragraph. Which is, incidentally, one detailing the findings of The Blazing Moon from last month, Park being mentioned handsomely in it.

Park rounds the desk to come in front of him. He levels Baekhyun with an odd stare. “I’m Chan, and I cannot stress this enough, Yeol,” he says. 

Baekhyun is silent. “Who?”

“Chanyeol. My name is Chanyeol,” he says, hitting his chest with his palm lightly. In his gaze, fervour, frustration, Baekhyun can read now. “Why won’t you call me that? It’s always Park Park Park. I’m  _ Chanyeol _ .” 

Baekhyun hurts somewhere. All over. For some reason. Obviously, he knows exactly why, but there will be a little more to wait until he admits to it, so patience, my child.

Baekhyun bites his lip. “I know.” 

“You know?”

“How could I not know?” Baekhyun asks into himself. He looks somewhere behind Park. 

“Then why don’t you…call me that?” 

Baekhyun doesn’t know. It’s too…personal. Too close. Like they know each other. Baekhyun calls Kyungsoo and Jongdae by name because he’s been friends with them for so long. Baekhyun can identify Kyungsoo by the smell of his burps. 

But Park is…Are they close? Baekhyun doesn’t know why he never thought of him as Chanyeol, but only as Park. 

“Um,” he mumbles. “I don’t know.” 

Park’s face falls. It’s barely hanging off by a string from his chin when he asks. “You really don’t?”

Baekhyun is…embarrassed. Is feeling ill. “I really don’t.”

Park’s face falls completely. It clatters to the floor somewhere between their feet. “Okay,” he says, then gets up and goes back to his work. 

  
  
  
  


Baekhyun has Bobochu on his right hand. His eye is sort of coming undone. Baekhyun will sew it back first thing in the morning. 

“Par Chanyeol,” Baekhyun says. With his other hand, he pulls the sheet over him all the way to his nose. “Chanyeol.”

Bobochu wiggles. “Chanyeol-ah. Chanyeollie. Yeol. Yeollie,” Baekhyun babbles. “Chanyeol.”

That’s his name. Baekhyun knows it. And he knows that the reasons he hasn’t called him so thus far aren’t valid anymore. 

But he’s curious as well when he will call him that. What cause it will have. 

“Chanyeollie,” he says again. 

Bobochu gasps. “Sorry, I know you aren’t Chanyeol, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Baekhyun soothes, pulling him under the sheet with him and hugging him to sleep.

  
  
  
  


Another night of looking for dirt. It’s automatic now. They’re part of them now. If they’re going to take them down, might as well take them all. And now they need some slight blackmail material – as per the judge’s words – just to aid with the investigation later on. Pulling the truth out of people with their dentures fused with money isn’t so easy. 

Which is how it is yet again around one in the morning, but cold now, rainy, and they smell of someone else’s drunkenness and smoke and debauchery and sleeplessness, as they dump four cameras with full film on the table, along with three tapes of recordings. 

They have to be processed as soon as possible, because the judge needs to apply more evidence so the prosecution can go forward, and they can use this in the interrogation room. Park is transcribing the tapes as Baekhyun is organizing the photographs. He yawns every other breath, Baekhyun mirroring that. 

They work fast to finish fast, in silence, only the occasional curse piercing through. They’re exhausted. And when they’re done, they don’t even have the energy to be happy about it.

Park gets up, yawns, arranges his clothes. Baekhyun gets up as well, and makes to see Park to the door. And when he sees him trying to put his shoes on, swaying and yawning some more, Baekhyun gets possessed by some  _ demon _ and it goes as follows:

Nobody: 

Absolutely no one:

Not a single soul in the universe:

Baekhyun: “You should sleep over.”

Because he would be damned if he will sleep alone on such a night, when he yet again forgot to change his bedding for something even thicker, and Park is alive, which means warm, and Baekhyun would like to leech some of that.  

Park drops the shoe from his hand. He’s been in the doorway for five minutes and didn’t manage to get even one on.

He looks at Baekhyun. “I…should?” 

“I mean,” Baekhyun coughs. “If you…want to?”

Park yawns again. “Um. Yes please.”

“Oh, okay. Um. Come here,” Baekhyun says. 

And Park comes, and then sits on the other side of the bed, where Kyung and Bobochu are. 

“Who are these guys?” he asks, taking both of them in hand.

“Me and me,” Baekhyun replies, getting comfy into the bed. Park is not as awkward as…the other times. Baekhyun wonders if there will come a time when there won’t be any awkwardness at all. He hopes not. “Kyung and Bobochu,” he introduces, touching the nose of each.

Park titters, sleepily, and snuggles in. He faces Baekhyun for long enough for him to say the story of when and how they came to exist. And what they mean to him.

At the end of the story, Park says “Cute,” but Baekhyun is already asleep and doesn’t hear him. 

  
  
  


Three days later, Baekhyun meets Park for brunch. Except Park sneaks up on him because his camera is visible in his pocket and Baekhyun thought he was getting abducted, so his reaction was to knock him down with a good ol’ knee to the balls. Ballerino nutcracker something, but he point is that Chanyeol is in tears and as he’s crouching to the ground, and Baekhyun doesn’t know how to apologize better. 

“You can hit me back. it’s okay! He tries. He already ordered something, but Park has never been to this place before, so he waited for him outside. Now he can barely amble back inside, and Baekhyun feels really bad about it. 

Park, laughing and crying, tears and teeth, says, “Why would I want to get back at you with this one? I don’t wish this anguish upon anyone.”

“Because…” Baekhyun says - helping him sit in his chair, and sitting back in his own - taken aback by the kindness flowing out of his mouth. And spit. “Don’t you hate me?”

Park frowns and laughs and cries and it’s too many things. “No?”

_ Hollup _ . 

“What do you mean no?” A booger drops into his coffee. His own booger from his own nose. Baekhyun sips it, pretending there’s no booger in it. He smacks his lips. Delicious. Now back to the time stopping revelation that just took place.

“No?” Baekhyun asks? “ _ No _ !?” In his mind, he adds a milliard other exclamation and question marks, for his voice is unable to reach that octave of bafflement and disbelief and  _ refusal _ . 

Park has calmed down a little by now. He sits, though improperly, as to placate his jewels. “Why…” Park says, his plump, plump lip between his teeth. Were they always this plump and soft looking and juicy, did he get lip fillers behind Baekhyun’s back. “Why would I hate you?” 

Baekhyun covers the gape of his mouth with his booger coffee. He takes one loud slurp. He puts the cup down. “Because I do?”

“And I have to reciprocate that?”

“Well,  _ of course _ you do, you…you—” his is tongue is empty. “You chirpy freesia.”

“I do not hate you,” Chanyeol says, slow and limpid, emphasizing the emphasized emphasis so it gets though Baekhyun’s thick ass skull. Well it doesn’t, he might need to get the drill out. “Have I ever said that? That I hated you?

Baekhyun crtl+Fs that in his mind real quick and. No. No he didn’t. Ever. He  _ didn’t _ .

Aside the fact that Baekhyun’s whole life is fictional, it is also a  _ lie _ . 

“I was in unrequited hate all this time?” he says to himself. “Oh my god.” 

He sees his face in the obsidian of the coffee. The face of a man who lived in unreciprocated hatred. 

_ Oh god. _

  
  
  
  


Baekhyun wakes up furious. Another night full of dreams of Park. Is he Park because he parks himself in people’s minds? If so, Baekhyun doesn’t remember allowing this? This is mental trespassing, and Baekhyun feels  _ violated _ . 

This is not the first of such nights however. Just because it wasn’t mentioned thus far, doesn’t mean Baekhyun hasn’t been tormented by all these Park-centric thoughts and daymares and nightmares and other brain activities, just that Baekhyun is so good at denial that this wasn’t even mentioned, because it is not happening. 

But tonight was worse than ever. This is a calamity. Code red. Baekhyun feels like making provisions and hiding in a bunker. Or he needs a tank. And weaponry. And attack…himself. Or Park. If there’s no Park, then there’s no Park thoughts, no confusion, so obviously eliminating him is the best solution. 

Given Baekhyun has no idea where to get a tank from, he will settle for a proxy, aka Kyungsoo. 

He gets out of bed, and not even putting a shirt on, he stomps downstairs, where Kyungsoo is already working – because it is yet again super late into the day, he’s been staying up in clubs for so long that now he has the sleep schedule of a lazy millennial – and resolutely, angrily stomps up to Kyungsoo’s desk. He sniffles. Dryly. Fakely. For he first needs Kyungsoo’s approval before he cries for real in front of him. 

“How many you got left?” Baekhyun nods towards the F cup, sitting in its designated spot. 

Maybe he already used them all, who knows. Baekhyun hopes so much that he didn’t. 

Kyungsoo slides his glasses off the bridge of his nose. Probably because Baekhyun looks, at best, like a shrimp with smallpox. “Enough for this.”

Baekhyun pulls a chair, and sits down. This is the dreaded, mandatory heart-to-heart. The plot literally cannot move forward without this, because it would mean to lean on Baekhyun’s emotional intelligence, which he has very little of, for he has been bestowed with all the other kinds of good,  _ useful _ intelligences. In short: he dumb, and Kyungsoo ain’t. 

Baekhyun inhales, and speaks. “He doesn’t hate me. I’m devastated.”

Nothing changes on Kyungsoo’s face. Then he utters the unutterable. “You like him.”

That’s a punch to the gut. Baekhyun hugs himself at once, softly rocking into it. “First of all,  _ no _ ,” he says. “Absolutely not. And second of all, this has nothing to do with what I said.” 

Kyungsoo leans back in his chair, lifting a leg over the desk. His foot is almost in Baekhyun’s face. Baekhyun, instinctively, sniffs it. No smell. He sways back a few times.  “I mean, for how smart you pretend to be—” 

“Pretend?

Kyungsoo’s eyes roll. Dryly. Like one of those plants things in the desert. Baekhyun’s brows furrow as he searches the built-in dictionary in his mind. Tumbleweed. It’s called a tumbleweed. Kyungsoo is tumbleweeding at him, and now shaking his head, and then licking his lips, and Baekhyun has no idea what any of this mean. 

Then Kyungsoo utters the unutterable 2.0, “Did you ever maybe, perhaps think that it is not hate?”

“It is hate,” Baekhyun says at once, unblinking.

Kyungsoo’s eyes tumbleweed again as he sighs one big, long sigh. “Very well,” he speaks. “But  _ why _ is it there? Why do you even hate him?” 

Baekhyun has better things to do than compile essays about why Park is the most insufferable hominid to walk this planet. “He’s just hateable.”  

“No,” Kyungsoo says, dismissive. “ _ Think _ about it.”

Baekhyun doesn’t want to think about it. Even if he tries to, he just cannot start processing it. His denial is that ingrained. After a stretch of silence, Kyungsoo goes on. “Could it be coming from envy?”

“I’m not envious of him. There’s nothing he has that I don’t.” Baekhyun knows this line by heart, because he said to himself on so many occasions, it might as well be true. 

“Are you sure about that?” Kyungsoo asks.

Baekhyun doesn’t reply.

“What if it’s admiration?” 

Baekhyun leans back in his chair too, sways in it too. “No. See above.” 

Now Kyungsoo shakes his head, obviously extenuated, as if  _ Baekhyun _ is the one being difficult. Which yeah, he is, who is he kidding. He explains, rare and clear: “Person A and Person B hate each other (or so it seems!). They are always getting into petty arguments with each other, which is a constant source of annoyance for their mutual friends. However, lately, they’ve been noticing weird little things about each other. Like Person A looks especially gorgeous when the sunlight hits them like that, or Person B has such an adorable laugh. What is going on?”

Well well, if this isn’t the perfect summary for what has happened thus far. 

Baekhyun blanks out. And drifts into this blankness of overloud, nameless feelings until: “Wait, Park thinks I have an adorable laugh?!”

“This is not the point,” Kyungsoo says, “And nobody said you’re Person B.” 

“I am Person B because my name is Byun Baekhyun, duh,” he says. He got two Bs. He’s the B-est. 

“So you think Aark Ahanyeol looks especially gorgeous when the sunlight hits him like that?”

Countless images of the sun hitting Park’s face barrage into his mind, all the brights and the golds and the lovelies and the pretties and — “No.” 

Kyungsoo doesn’t buy it for a second. “Great.” 

Baekhyun sniffles. He’s not crying but he might be crying. This is too many revelations at once. Baekhyun should’ve braced himself for it better. Now his torment is but enhanced, and life will be even harder. 

He gets up from the chair, and pats Kyungsoo’s head. “You’re mean.”

“You’re in love with him.”

Baekhyun stares. This is the climax huh. Baekhyun really had to get to this point. Couldn’t it have not happened? Does Baekhyun has to have realizations? The story could’ve gone on just fine even without this. It really could. This is needless. Absolutely needless. Baekhyun needs to have a word with the person in charge of this. 

“You’re fired.”

“Not as fired as your ass over him.”

How the turns have tabled. Baekhyun’s eyes narrow and narrow until they’re closed, because he doesn’t want to see Kyungsoo anymore. “Who taught you to speak like that?”

“The love of your life.”

Nonsense. Madness. Absolute nonsense and absolute madness. Baekhyun laughs himself out of the room, climbs the stairs back into his apartment, and plunges into the bed to scream. 

  
  
  
  


Now we’re just going to disregard the scene above entirely and focus on development of the latest batch of evidence. Baekhyun has just one roll of film left to process, out of approximatively a dozen, and by now he’s enjoying this almost comatose state induced by the darkness. He’s expecting to wake up to a whole new life. That would be sweet. 

Instead, what he sees once he pulls the curtain back, is Park, pouring the chemicals into the tray, because he’s been around Baekhyun enough that he now knows most of the process. He looks at Baekhyun questioningly as he pours a few more drops, and a few more, and a few more, until Baekhyun nods that it is enough. Then he smiles and the sun hits his teeth and his eyes and they  _ shine _ and Baekhyun can’t breathe. 

_ Fuck _ . 

  
  
  
  


The idea of feelings is abstract. And what does abstract mean? It’s for hippie, uneducated people who cannot make a Venn diagram of their actions. A Disarray of their psyche. And given Baekhyun is not one of those people, he concludes that he doesn’t harbour any feelings. He said so. He ordered so. Whose heart is this, isn’t it his? It’s his bitch, and his bitch does what he wants. Other people might be ambling about with disobedient hearts, flinging themselves out of their cavities without their owner’s consent whichever way they please, but not Baekhyun’s, because he has a name brand heart, a designer heart, the fancy kind of disciplined heart. Baekhyun didn’t raise no traitor in his chest. It will be evicted at the first sign of mutiny. 

So he doesn’t like Park, okay, stop insisting he does. 

  
  
  
  


The darkroom is somewhere between the ground floor and the basement. It only has a tiny window barely peeking above the ground. It can only be accessed through the main entrance of the building, which is  _ not _ the entrance of the agency. 

Which is why the safe is kept in this room. Currently, it is hosting the originals Baekhyun didn’t get to copy yet, along with copies of things already submitted to Daehwi. And most importantly, their latest batch of documents – the proof of ownership he has over that drug den  _ and _ the Tea House – in original, which will be enough for conviction,  _ finally _ , and which Baekhyun intends to copy right  _ now _ . 

Well, turns out that he can’t do that because the safe was fucking  _ stolen _ .

Baekhyun turns the light on, and looks  _ better _ . And better. And better. And he rubs his eyes and pinches his cheek and—

The safe really isn’t there. There is just a gaping, stringy hole left in the chest it was hosted by. 

This isn’t happening, Baekhyun thinks. He closes his eyes, counts to three. Opens them again. His heart is pounding. 

“It’s gone!” he shouts, running out and up into the office. Only Jongdae is here. “The safe is gone!” 

Jongdae is not one to stretch it with doubts and astonishment. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. It was here in the early afternoon. I put in the powders.” Iffy samples found at the Tea House. Baekhyun  _ barely _ stopped Park from licking it to make sure it’s not sugar. 

“Fuck,” Jongdae exclaims. Still calm. 

Getting into the dark room from the outside is hard. That window is very small. But they broke it and got in. What Baekhyun doesn’t understand is how they took the safe out, because it is bigger than the window. And Jongdae has been here all day. How did they go unnoticed. And  _ who _ are they. Who knew the safe was there, how they found it, how they got it out.

But there’s no time to figure this out. Baekhyun cannot believe the last piece of the puzzle is out of his hands after  _ all that work _ .  

“I’ll get Chanyeol,” Jongdae says.

Baekhyun nods, tries to calm his rabid heart. 

  
  
  
  


Baekhyun’s pessimism is pushing him to think of other options. There is a truckload of dirt to be found on Park Minhyo. An arrest warrant could be placed on his head for reasons other than these too. 

But that would take so long and so much effort. And frankly. Baekhyun is tired of this. He wants to go back to his boring life, to bribing kids for literature essays, to making up scientific studies about the effects of having too much ice cream. 

So he will  _ not _ have this go down the drain. Absolutely  _ not _ . 

From the moment he meets up with Park, hopping in the passenger seat, his mind runs to possibilities. 

They’re looking to destroy the documents for sure. They might try to get the safe open, which is they will not manage to, because Baekhyun got it from the yard sale of a politician accused of treason. And people who do treason have some damn good safes. 

So they will try to blow it up. 

Jongdae and Kyungsoo are in a car, Sehun and Jongin in another, and him and Park in this one as they’re driving around the perimeter of the city. It’s close to sunset, not quite there, but their minutes of light are counted. Thankfully, Park has a few lanterns on him. 

They’re looking out for suspicious activity. Blowing shit up with dynamite can’t be done just anywhere, especially if they need to be stealthy about it. An open field would work best, as to not leave traces. 

And people in open fields are easy to see. 

They gave themselves so many false alarms throughout the half hour they’ve driven that Baekhyun has been a constant state of freneticism. Park can’t stop saying every single little thing is them, until—

A place truly is suspicious. Park stops the car, and they get out to squint in the distance. The movement is so far out that Baekhyun can’t really tell if it’s people or scarecrows. Until they see…fire. And scarecrows aren’t smart enough to know how to light up something on fire. 

“Yes yes yes,” Park says, not even happy, just relieved. Baekhyun feels it as well. 

They leave the car on the road, right where it is, to signal where they stopped. Sehun and Jongin are going this way well, somewhere on the other side of the city now. 

They cross the street and dive into the field. It’s autumn now though, which means the herbs are dry and crunchy and noisy, and the slithering in silence part is kind of hard. But when the wind blows, the whole field rattles, and they use this opportunity to get even closer. And closer. And closer. And closer. Baekhyun only gets like five spiders and a lizard on him before they’re close enough to actually see them. The sun is the brightest now, close to setting, and Park can’t see anything. He switches places with Baekhyun to make use of his exemplary eyesight. 

It’s two dudes, one in some sort of industrial onesie, though Baekhyun cannot attribute it to any profession, and the other dude is stubbly, and dirty, like a shrunk, burnt sausage, and Baekhyun has a haunch that he knows him from somewhere, but he also can’t pinpoint from where. They don’t look that intimidating at all. 

And between them, the  _ safe _ . “It’s there,” he whispers to Park, who keeps nudging him from behind. 

They don’t have any weapons on them any other than their bodies and Park’s bicycle pump and neither of those can like, shoot bullets, which would be really handy right now. Also he cannot inoculate himself with sudden combat knowledge, but all of this thinking and reasoning flies right out the window when onesie guy picks up a burning stick from the fire – for what did they even make a fire, a mini barbeque party? – and lights up the long wick leading up the safe and  _ oh god _ . 

They jump out of the bushes in a blink to tackle them. 

It’s obvious from the get go that they don’t know how to fight either. They’re some kind of thugs, tertiary underlings, trousers broken at the knees, arranging the job of the higher ups. 

But of course, they’d have something on them. Like a pipe. This dude should’ve come with the whole sink if he decided to play dirty. Baekhyun doesn’t give a fuck about this pipe, he  _ will _ be fighting to the death. 

This whole thing is happening in like three frames per second, because Baekhyun is both aware and unaware of what he’s doing, wielding that pump by the hose and flailing it about as he throws himself at the burning wick, sputtering fast towards the safe, while Park is behind him diverting the attention of the two dudes with some punches. 

Baekhyun steps on the spark like he would on a roach, repeated and violent and cursing, but it’s running away, the spark barely dying down, and this is when he’s hit with the pipe over the shin. He screams. Then another hit, and Park screams.

That pain is so invigorating that Baekhyun doesn’t even feel it. The pipe guy is with his back at him, and Baekhyun jumps him, legs around his waist, and he falls over Park, who was just getting up, and he gets knocked over, which knocks the other guy over, and then it’s all biting, and twirling, all four of them, into a ball of interlaced limbs and ferocity and murderousness.  Baekhyun lost the pump, and then he has the pipe, and Park knees him in the ribs, which is okay, because in doing so, he also knees the onesie guy in the jaw, which  _ ouch _ , that broke a few teeth for sure. Baekhyun trips the sausage guy, jumps on his back, rests his (hurty) shin on his nape, his face sunken into mud. He thrashes. Baekhyun can only hold him like this, because this is what they need to do. 

And he realizes that they fought over the spark. Baekhyun was so caught up on  _ not _ dying that he forgot about the explosive. He sighs, long and hearty. Which is probably indistinguishable from his deep pants, because really, he isn’t that in shape, and fighting is hard. 

He looks over at Park, who has the onesie guy also with his face in the mud, and while he’s casually sitting on top of him. He’s holding his hands in a tight grip, his wrists thin and bony. Park’s big hands came in handy for once. 

And now…they wait. Because they aren’t here to kill anyone, God forbid. At this point, it’s either they get injured and exhausted enough that they run away and abandon the safe – surely their attachment to it isn’t more than monetary, but money is no easy thing -  or they have to toy with them around like this until reinforcement show up and they can get rid of the dudes and carry the safe back to their headquarters. 

He doesn’t know where Kyungsoo and Jongdae are, but he’s still betting the most on Jongin and Sehun showing up first. That is, if they get the hint with the car. 

So it’s a game of waiting, sitting on ratty dudes, throwing punches, some insults, some questions, yelling, gasping, until, at last,  _ finally _ , they hear a rustle of the wheat that is not from the fucking breeze. Park is now laying on top of the onesie dude like it’s a hammock, and he perks up at the sound as well. He’s been agitated all this while – Park barely managed to calm him by pressing on his eyes a few times – but this jerk is enough for him to escape from under Park. Which is when grabs a plank of wood from the field – where the hell did that come from? – and goes at Park, and  _ hits _ , diagonal between the back of his shoulder and his nape, and Park staggers, eyes rolling back, and  _ fuck _ , “Hurry up!” Baekhyun yells towards where the rustle in the filed is coming. 

Sausage guy thrashes as well, “Don’t fucking move,” he hisses, holding him down stronger than ever, because he cannot let go of him now when it’s obvious they want to fight more, not run. How much did they get paid that they’re willing to put up with all of this for the safe, dammit. But he will let sausage guy go if Park cannot take care of onesie guy. Park has got the pump in his hand, though Baekhyun sees how lax his grasp is around that cylinder. 

“The balls!” Baekhyun shouts, because Park really doesn’t seem fine, especially when he doesn’t manage to bar the  _ second _ hit onesie guy aims, this time aimed at his flank. Park staggers, sways, legs giving out, until he collapses. Baekhyun can’t breathe. 

While this was a dirty fight literally, they haven’t gone down to the other kind of dirt, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and it doesn’t take much to smash a pair of balls until he’s laying in a pool of his own nutmilk. Baekhyun fights that dude like he never fought in his life, seizing the plank for him after taking him down and poking the thinner end into his chest over and over until he tries to worm away. The sausage guy that was under Baekhyun all along didn’t even make to move, laying exactly in the same position Baekhyun left him. 

So he gave up, huh. 

Baekhyun kicks onesie guy in the balls one more time, profanities filling his mouth, as the guy shouts, and Baekhyun is so livid that he barely manages to stop and leave him be as he cannot move anymore right now. 

He turns around and falls to his knees. “Chanyeol,” he says, bending over him. His eyes are closed. “Chanyeol! Chanyeol! Chan- Chanyeollie, Yeol, Yeollie, Yeolliechu,” Baekhyun babbles, ultraloud, as his heart pounds, and pounds and pounds. He shakes his body, and  _ nothing _ happens. Baekhyun crumbles. he’s really just a colony of Baekhyun pieces spread out and aching and he’s basically ambulatory flour ready to be baked in a loaf of anguish. Baekhyun cups his face, gently shaking it, slapping it. “Chanyeollie” he whispers. Why aren’t his eyes opening. Why. Baekhyun touches his lids. They don’t react to the contact. 

“This is not the time to seep, Chanyeol, you wake the fuck up right fucking now,” Baekhyun hits his cheeks even more. Should he pinch them? Is he pinch activated? Kiss him? Is he Snow White. Do what? Baekhyun remembers none of the first aid training he took once, and this is debilitating. “My sweet vanilla pudding rosebud, wake up, wake up!” 

But he doesn’t. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the boys arriving and handling the situation. Mostly Kyungsoo and Jongdae, while Sehun and Jongin cuddle in a corner frightened. All that bigness, and for nothing. 

But he can’t even be bothered to care for that because Chanyeol is not waking up and he should be waking up, because Baekhyun demanded so. “My little joy cloud, wake up! I’m asking so nicely, wake up!” Baekhyun puts his head on his chest. His heart seems to still be beating, though it might be his own throwing a tantrum in his ears, and he’s breathing, but he’s not opening his eyes, and Baekhyun recalls some snippets about broken necks and concussions and death, the he just shakes him and shakes him. “You’re my honeybunch,” Baekhyun weeps, eyes suddenly watering. “Sugar plum.” And he cries now he really cries. Baekhyun didn’t even know he still had that app installed in his body but the tears are angrily pouring “Pumpy-umpy-umpkin,” he chokes out. “Wake up,” he says again, not even a shout now, but giving up, because he isn’t moving, he isn’t opening his eyes. 

Because there’s no bit of Baekhyun’s floury body that doesn’t hurt, but most of all, his floury heart, which is complete pancake batter, hurts  _ the most _ . Baekhyun never felt a pain like this. “You're my sweetie pie,” Baekhyun goes on, holding his face, salt and peppering it with kisses. “You're my cuppycake,” smakeroo and smakeroo and smakeroo and they’re wet and snotty and sticky, because  _ what if _ he doesn’t wake up ever again. Baekhyun is not ready for this loss. Baekhyun cannot have it now, not when— when—

“I love you!” he shouts. “I fucking love you, dammit, and you are not  _ allowed _ to die on me now.” Baekhyun cries. And cries. Because he really loves this coconut snowman and he didn’t even  _ know _ , and to find out about it now at the same time he’s  _ losing _ him— 

“Finally!” Park bursts, getting up. 

Baekhyun stares, dumbfounded, tears on his face, and his mouth tasting of that confession and his panic going into overdrive because the first thing he thinks of is that he’s hallucinating and Park is a ghost but he’s not because it’s not and he’s laughing, and throwing himself at Baekhyun and squeezing him in a tight hug, and kissing around his face back and—

“What the fuck do you mean  _ finally _ ?” Baekhyun shouts, squirming out of his embrace. 

Park cups his face and looks into his eyes. His smile is blinding blinding  _ blinding _ . It’s completely dark out now and he’s a whole  _ lighthouse _ . 

“I love you too!” he says, happy, so very  _ happy _ . 

Baekhyun chokes on his breath. 

“Fuck you!”

“I love yoooou.”

“I said fuck-fucking-you, you pompous shart balloon!” Baekhyun wails, making to get out of his hold completely. 

“I love you so very much, Baekhyunnie!” he says, coming after Baekhyun as he’s ambling away. 

“Shut up! Shut up right now, you human embodiment of unsalted butter!” Baekhyun shouts back, running faster. He doesn’t know why he’s running. He feels…vulnerable. He feels overwhelmed. 

He’s happy. Too many kinds of happy, and too intense. 

As Baekhyun hits the thick of the wheat tufts, Park catches up with him. Baekhyun’s foot gets tangled in some weed and stops. Park immediately taking the opportunity to tackle him down. 

It’s a hug. Park on top of him, face in the crook of his neck. Baekhyun squirms, but not as to get away from him. Just to distract himself form how this feels. From how much he feels. From how much he likes Chanyeol holding him like this and nuzzling into him like this and still whispering, “I love you, dumbass.” 

Baekhyun, slowly, gently, places his palm over Chanyeol’s head. He tangles his fingers in his har, to hold him right there where he is – with his face into Baekhyun’s neck. 

“I hate you,” he says. 

“You don’t,” Chanyeol says, small, soft, kind. “You never did.” 

“I do. I did,” Baekhyun says, firm. Chanyeol moves, pulling out from his nest. He seeks Baekhyun’s eyes. 

“Should I take it all back then?” 

Baekhyun panics. And panics  _ hard _ . “Of course, I hate you, you cute little banana biscuit, I thought you  _ died!”  _ he cries _.  _

Chanyeol laughs, and it’s gorgeous and Baekhyun loves it and loves him and hates him and—

“Sorry,” Chanyeol says. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

And he kisses Baekhyun. And damn did Baekhyun want to be kissed, and kissed, and kissed, and please never stop kissing him, and touching him, though this wheat is uncomfortable as fuck and he probably has a good couple of spired in his asshole right now, but Chanyeol just tastes so good and feels so good that Baekhyun doesn’t ever want to do anything else in his life other than be with Chanyeol and kiss Chanyeol and be Chanyeol’s. 

He rolls on top of him to kiss him better and deeper when Chanyeol lands on some sort animal and yelps and scurries away. Baekhyun follows him, catches him, takes him down again. He holds his face. Because his face is nice to hold. And look at. And kiss. And love. His goddamn twatwaffle face. And his cheeks, unblown primrose bouquets, just ripe to be picked. By Baekhyun. Which his pecks. Like a hen. And nip him until he’s holey as a colander. 

“I hate you,” Baekhyun says, laughing, happy, happy, so so so  _ happy _ , as he’s straddling Chanyeol’s hips and looking down at him. 

“Yeah, sure,” Chanyeol says, and Baekhyun hits him and threatens to send him to the morgue. 

  
  
  


Cue outro with upbeat music: 

Baekhyun, who is Park Chanyeol’s boyfriend, is smiling at Park Chanyeol, his boyfriend, as he’s sitting in his lap naked -   ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  \- and reading the Morning Voyager. The paper is now a good few hours old, and though they know everything in it and have already read it a couple of times, they haven’t had enough of it yet.

Outside, the city is in chaos. Park Minhyo got arrested along with his accomplices and tangential sinners. 

On the table, the letter from the mayor inviting them to a celebration that will also disclose the extend of their reward. It was promised to be  _ handsome _ . 

Sehun and Kyungsoo will be getting married.

Jongdae is still getting flowers from the anonymous sender. 

Baekhyun is so in love he’s stupid but that’s okay because Chanyeol is stupid too, and thankfully they like stupid. 

And later on they end up merging their newspapers into a bigger, better publication, named The Blazing Clandestines, which sounds awesome for a journalistic lovechild, don’t you dare rain on their parade, and they still have kissing contests to this day and there’s a special circumstance when Chanyeol calls Baekhyun Cock Baekdaddy and the fic is now over, thank you for reading, I hope it was bearable >.<. 

 

 

 


End file.
